


We're Not Broken Just...

by echoes_of_another_life



Series: Shards from the Devil's Pyre [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_another_life/pseuds/echoes_of_another_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wasn’t seventeen anymore. He wasn’t a kid. It wasn’t just the years that had aged him, but the things he had seen, and had done. What had happened that night, in that alley was just the first in a long line of ugly that he’d long since accepted as part of the job. He did what he had to and let the emotion be swallowed by the miles he put between each new horror. But now that horror was staring in him straight in the face and the emotion; the memories were being retraced as fast as the miles that took him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Not Broken Just...

Dean glanced up from the laptop screen his eyes sore and vision blurred from having spent hours scrolling through various police, coroners’ and forensic reports, followed by another several hours reading the statements of those first at the scene. He needed a break but the only relief he saw in the small, twin motel room was the various newspaper clippings and grisly photographs that were pinned to the garish flowered paper that covered the walls. That and the several guns, stripped down and soaking in solvent to remove the carbon build up, which Dean was sure would ruin the flowered bedspread. There were reasons they never allowed the motel staff to enter any of the countless motel rooms they’d stayed in, never mind the weapons charges. The criminal trespass of a government’s computer alone would be enough to get him arrested, and his father, despite the fact that John much preferred the old-fashioned means of research. The hunter’s network, books, newspapers and the vast amount of knowledge that he had accumulated over the years. Sam had always made it look so easy and now Dean wondered if they’d taken for granted the many hours Sam had saved them when it came to piecing together information and matching it to the relevant lore.

Dean wasn’t used to sitting, hunched over books or a computer for hours either. He’d much rather be out there, in the thick of it, ankle-deep in blood, guts and gore. Not that he preferred the macabre to mundane, well he did, he preferred just about anything to spending hours poring over ancient rites, religious scripts and the never-ending task of separating the lore from the ludicrous. It was a valuable skill to have, it just wasn’t one of the many he’d perfected over the years. He was more at home amidst a crime scene, could work it unseen, evade and impersonate with equal ability. He could usually tell within no time at all if it was their kind of violence or the regular kind because he never discounted the fact that not all horror was supernatural in origin. People were just as capable, as lacking in restraint and empathy as the monsters they hunted but as much as it sickened him, it wasn’t their job to serve and protect. Their job was saving people, hunting things, the family business, but they hadn’t been a family in months, eleven to be exact. Eleven months and four days, not that Dean was keeping track. 

Dean glanced up from the laptop screen and watched as John closed the book he was reading and reached for another from the pile that was stacked on the small, drop leaf table they shared. Dean closed the laptop, ran his hand through his short, cropped hair and noted it was growing a little long at the front and now jutted out in different directions from the numerous times he’d done the same thing in the past few hours. He was going stir crazy from being cooped up too long. His foot twitched in time to the consistent drum-like beat of the rain against the motel room window, disturbed only by the sound of paper being flipped as his father continued to sit, head bent, eyes downcast, and focused solely on the passages of each page before it was turned. The sound occasionally interrupted when John paused every now and again to look out the window, and absently twist the gold band around his ring finger. Despite the outward display of cool efficiency and detachment, Dean knew the seemingly insignificant gesture meant his father was worried beyond his wits.

Dean scanned the research that was pinned to the wall for a second time; his sharp gazing searching the crime scene photos of each mutilated, partially clothed and discarded corpse, for that one vital clue. The photos were taken from several angles and distances, including close up. The measuring ruler that lay beside each victim’s torso… Dean paused, realised what is was that bothered him. The ruler seemed strange, out of place, clean and precise. A human tool among inhuman carnage but it showed the extent of the wounds. The stomach and chest cavities viciously torn open, ribs cracked wide, and the viscera… Dean forced himself to look away from the bodies to the faces of each in turn; they were people, not animals though it was hard to remember that when seeing the evidence of the way they’d been discarded. Their interior muscles were exposed where the heart had been ripped from beneath and the viscous remains of the spleen and external muscles clearly visible from where the killer or killers or something else entirely had crudely and savagely removed the liver. 

His first thought had been a werewolf, but that didn’t explain the missing liver, plus the moon phases had been wrong and the bodies were devoid of bite wounds large enough. These bites were small, focused around the extremities, random and more likely caused by wild life, possibly a bobcat or coyote that had happened upon the body before it had been discovered. Next to the photographs were notes both in his father’s handwriting and his own, newspaper clippings, headlines that told of the sickening horror that had befallen the normally peaceful town. Dean raised an eyebrow, a cynical twist to his mouth, and reread how peaceful and normal the town supposedly was. Lastly, there were the missing person’s posters; each showing a young victim, smiling, and alive. Each rectangular piece of paper bearing witness to the last hopes, the sad and desperate pleas of a family who wanted to have their loved ones returned home to them. Returned safe and whole, not a torn and shredded, used up carcass left to the elements, and the mercy of starving, opportune scavengers. 

Dean swallowed, rubbed the damp palms of his hands against his denim-clad thighs and shook his head slightly to clear the faint, dizzy feeling that threatened to overwhelm him for the third time that afternoon. Just looking at the wall, at the newspaper articles made him almost sick to his stomach. A normal person’s reaction to the horror and disregard for human life, oh, how he wished it were true of himself, but he’d seen worse - first hand, and up close. The stench of purged fluid in your nasal tract, kind of up-close, and at first it ate him up inside; it leached so deep into the surface of his skin that he feared it would never wash off, but he’d become accustomed to it. He’d learned to push aside the revulsion, both toward the sights he’d seen and the cause, to get at the facts; because facts led to patterns, led to clues, led to lore, led to finding the son-of-a-bitch, so he could kill it and save another family the horror. 

What bothered him about the newspaper clippings, what caused the sickening feeling in his gut and chest to tighten to the point where it actually hurt to take a breath was the disbelief that morphed into denial and forced its way to the forefront of everything. Ahead of the victims, ahead their fear and their pain, ahead of the minutes, hours they’d spent begging for death; spent begging to be released from the physical bonds that prolonged their terror or even the real threat that it could happen again, and soon, was the large, bold print that jumped off the front page. It mocked his reserve and bulldozed its way through the wall he had erected against all the crap that came with being a Winchester. 

Greenwood, Oregon.

Seven years, nine months and however many days stood between now and that darkened alley, between him and hazel eyes and bark of laughter he’d sworn were behind him. Despite the many nights he’d lain awake trying to escape the reminder, there were parts of it, he couldn’t, didn’t want to forget. He hated the circumstances that’d led to it, the selling himself so that they could eat, could have a safe place to sleep, but he couldn’t deny, the sex had been good -- better than good. He’d learned a valuable lesson that night and it wasn’t just how far he was willing to stoop. There’d been others since, many, blonde, brunette, an extremely memorable, hot, red-haired chick and several equally hot guys, and from each encounter he’d learned more on how to give pleasure as well as take it. Something he’d learned that night. Something Nate had shown him. He’d even thought they could have something more once, but he’d been fooling himself – it was nothing more than a slow-dying flame for something outside of the job. Since then his hook ups had been fun and frequent, but he’d never been able to recreate the heat, the fervour that he experienced that night in Greenwood. With Nate.

“Dean?” 

The sound of John’s impatience dragged Dean from his unwanted trip down memory lane. He stretched out his fingers, felt their stiffness from being balled into tight, painful fists, took a deep, calming breath and forced himself to relax. 

“I’m listening,” Dean answered.

“I said the children are still missing,” John told him.

In the foreboding silence that followed Dean realised the truth he’d been fighting against, had almost convinced himself he could avoid.

He’d have to go back. 

They were no closer to finding a pattern. There were still no obvious links between the victims, their habits, their families, or friends, nor were the missing children linked to each other, except that each had disappeared within a similar time frame. The only connection the timeline had given them was that each child was the same age and had disappeared a day before each of the victims had been killed. One after the other and there’d been no sign of them since. No witnesses to either disappearance, no reports of strangers or strange vehicles in the area, no clothing, fibres and most importantly no bodies had shown up at the morgue or in the surrounding area. 

They’d be going in blind; still it wouldn’t be the first time.

“Why don’t I call Sam?” Dean asked.

“Dammit Dean!” John snapped.

“We’ve got nothing. This is huge, and we could use his help. Dad, you know this is Sam’s territory. He can find patterns even seasoned hunters miss, track down lore that’s been dead and buried for a millennia,” Dean replied. 

“We’ve been through this before, now drop it.”

“He’ll help; he left to…” Dean began.

“That’s right. He left. We’re up to our necks in evil, and he walked away. He walked away Dean.” 

John glared at Dean for an instant and Dean swallowed and looked away, was the first to break eye contact and sighed. He heard John turn another page in the research book he’d been reading, the conversation over before it had even begun. 

“So what _have_ we got?” Dean asked, partly in the way of a peace offering.

“Two bodies both with the same injuries but killed almost a month apart. The first has already been buried but the pathologist has specimens for culture and chemical analysis. According to reports, histological, chemical, toxicological, bacteriological, and viral have come back negative for cause of death in either case. The provisional anatomical diagnosis is still pending. From what I can tell there are no connections between times of death or blood grouping, not that there was much blood left in either of the two victims. The second is still at the town morgue, but they won’t know to look for the things we can use to determine the cause of death, or more importantly, identity the thing that killed them.”

Dean already knew about the demonic omens that had been lighting the town up for weeks. It was what had caught John’s attention in the first place, and Dean knew nothing gained his father’s attention more than signs of demon activity. 

“When do we leave?” Dean asked. He knew it was inevitable, had known from the moment his father had tacked the first rectangular shaped poster to the wall, its smiling face a morbid reminder that the job came first. First, last and always despite the fact that Dean also knew that the same smile was probably already grotesquely deformed into the twisted grimace of its final moments.

“Tonight, I need to make more salt rounds before we pull out and I need you to take a trip into town. The knives could use the edges stropped and the cross section thinned so I need you to pick up a double-sided whetstone and fill up the gas tank.” 

“Got it.” Dean grabbed for his jacket, shrugged into the well-worn leather and reached for the door, his fingers curling around the handle.

“And Dean?” 

Dean turned around. He watched as his father reached for the walnut handle of his knife; the brass guard fitted tight to the leather sheath before he withdrew the ten-inch steel, marine blade with its sharpened swage grind and scraped it down his forearm. Tested its sharpness against the fine hairs it came into contact with. 

“Yeah?” 

“Get a damn haircut,” John demanded.

“Yes sir.”

Dean shoved his hand into his jacket, fumbled around for the keys to the Impala and felt the solid shape of his phone; he thought about calling Sam but knew he wouldn’t, just as he hadn’t the million other times he’d had the same thought. Oh, he knew what Bobby would say and had said on the several occasions they’d spoken since Sam had left. 

_Dean your father maybe one the best as far as hunting goes, all bloodlust and vengeance but the man’s an ass. Just call your damn brother boy it’s not that hard._

But he got it. He did, why John refused to talk about it, to even have Sam’s name mentioned. He missed him, like he missed her. Like he hadn’t been able to save her, and that’s why he’d always kept them both so close. Why he dragged them everywhere with him save for the most dangerous of hunts. Why he’d raised them the way he had. The weapon and combat training? Taught them all they’d need to know, not just how to hunt, how kill, but how to survive in the real world. Not the nine-to-five, payment plans, T-ball games and back yard barbeques but salt lines, hex bags, burning corpses and knowing your lamb’s blood from that of a dog. How to kill anything supernatural that walks, crawls, manifests or shape shifts. Unspeakable things. That and giving the grieving families a neat, acceptable answer even if it wasn’t the right one, wasn’t the truth, and hoping, just hoping that your mark on the world was the lives you saved and not just the blood stain you left on the ground. 

But he couldn’t protect Sam from the road, not while Sam was half way across the country, at college. John already distrusted schools, or any institution like place he’d have to leave either of them behind in, but he had a severe dislike and even worse distrust of teaching staff and not just John. Dean too but their father blamed himself for almost getting Sam killed. Blamed himself for trusting, believing they could have something normal once upon a time. Only the demon wearing Sam’s second-grade teacher had been anything but normal. Dean gunned the engine on the Impala and turned up the volume as music filled its interior, anything to drown out the memory, the look on his father’s face when he’d realised Sam was missing. If he hadn’t been there, if his father hadn’t drummed it into him, time and time again to watch out for his brother. It seemed every time they turned around while growing up, there was something coming after them, more often than not with its sights set on Sam. 

But Sam was determined and when Sam wanted something, he was more stubborn than the three of them put together, and Sam wanted to put down roots. He wanted something normal but for a Winchester that meant rebellion, and Dean knew their father couldn’t hang up his boots. Not while the thing that killed their mother was still out there somewhere. Hell Dean doubted he ever would. There would always be another hunt, and if he’d learned anything from his father it was that a hunter never passes up a hunt. That everything is a threat, and the enemy doesn’t quit until its dead. To watch out for his brother and be ready for whatever’s coming, whatever the hell that meant.

Dean smiled at the desk clerk as he shoved the credit card belonging to Ambros Gottschalk back into his wallet, the one Ambros Gottschalk didn’t yet know he had. He pocketed the keys to his room, and the one registered to his father, left the small, front office and made his way to where John was unloading his truck. Something else that had become that much harder since Sam had left, covering their credit card trail, which Sam had done with ease even though he disapproved.

It wasn’t just that he missed the role Sam played, the many tricks Sam knew to keep them functioning below the radar. He just missed Sam. He missed looking over at his left and seeing him there, shoulder to shoulder not just in battle but in life. Blood may have made them brothers but death had taken that from them. Turned them into soldiers. Given them a mission and while his father’s had always been to avenge their mother, Dean’s had always been to protect Sam. 

It had been John’s idea that they get separate rooms just like it had been John’s idea that they hunt the thing together even though Dean had tried to convince his father that he didn’t need him. He even used John’s rule that they never visit the same town twice against him but in the end, his father had been right. If the disappearance of the kids was unconnected to whatever was doing the killing, then there may be two cases in town, and it made sense that they each took a room and worked a separate case. Working both together, at the same time would cross too many wires and confuse the hell out of them. Working them one after the other would mean they would be in town longer and too long in one place was never a good thing. That and it was impossible to decide which case should take precedence. If it turned out they were connected or the local or state law enforcement found the kids, if they were safe, then they could team up, get the job done and hit the nearest exit out of town in as short a time as possible. That part of the plan suited Dean fine. 

They’d agreed to unpack and each check out a crime scene, despite the two-day drive both were conscious that time wasted could mean another body or another missing kid. Dean had wanted to take the woods where the bodies had been found, fewer likelihoods of mixing it up with the locals but again, his father had been right. His truck was more suited to the terrain and while Dean hated the idea, he’d have to take the only witness they had, ask the awkward questions and hope he didn’t run into anyone familiar. Not that there’d be anyone to recognise him, save for one person. The only consolation was that each child had failed to return home from a summer school program. Dean shook his head. They’d spent their summers on the move, not cooped up in school, but by the time he was the age the missing kids had been… Dean corrected himself, as old as the missing kids _were_ , he’d already known how to shoot a Browning and take out a Manitou. 

It also worked in their favour. He’d have more luck passing himself off as a law enforcement officer at the school. There’d be a family liaison at the home and no doubt, they’d be logging all visitors, as well as their credentials, that and Dean knew there was no way to predict how people reacted under such stress. Not to mention coping with the feelings of blame when someone you were responsible for had something happen to them. Especially when that someone was a kid. He knew first-hand how that sort of guilt could eat you up inside, and he wasn’t sure he could be convincing enough to reassure a family that their kid would be returned safe. That had always been Sam’s job. Sincerity, and a natural compassion to reassure. Dean was grateful for every life they saved, every person they managed to return home, but he knew the odds were more often than not stacked against them. 

Sometimes he wondered if they were so used to death that any victory over it slipped by unnoticed.

Dean unpacked the black coloured pants and collared white shirt, he’d purchased after his haircut, from the carry bag and quickly cut off their tags. He refolded the blade from his maple lock knife and threw the clothes on the bed, the expense, even if it hadn’t come out of his own pocket, still ate at him. By the time John poked his head in to say he was heading out, Dean had showered, dressed and was sat skimming through the reports to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

Dean followed the school secretary as she walked in short, unhurried steps down the hall, the heels on her black stiletto shoes clicking on the wood-effect vinyl floor, the sound echoing along the corridor. The classrooms all empty now that the school had been forced to close following the second disappearance and Dean wondered how she managed to keep her balance or walk in them at all, even if they did show off her slender calves perfectly. He wished she’d just given him directions instead of having to follow her at such a slow pace. Schools were never his favourite places to be, still the view of her long, tanned legs almost made up for the length of time it was taking to reach their destination.

Dean had the decency to look a little shame-faced when she glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring. With an elegant toss of her head she flicked her hair back over her shoulder, and continued down the long corridor. Dean could have sworn he heard laughter, but he was too busy watching the graceful swish of her long blonde hair and the pert cheeks of her ass that seemed to squeeze and tense temptingly with each step. Finally, at the last door on the left, she came to an abrupt halt. She knocked once on the frosted glass door panel that read ‘Principal’s Office’ in gold lettering, turned the knob and pushed it open.

“Detective Washington,” the secretary announced.

“Please, call me Greg.” Dean stepped into the carpeted office, smiled at the petite, red-haired woman behind the desk and held out his hand as she rose from her high-backed chair.

She leaned out across her desk and introduced herself with a polite nod of her head, and a firm, no-nonsense shake of his hand. “Valerie Allen, we spoke on the phone.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here,” Dean replied. He waited until the Principal was seated, then pulled out the vacant chair and took a seat opposite her.

“Of course, such a terrible thing, and what with the murders… the whole community is simply devastated.”

Dean nodded, eager to wrap it up and get back to the motel, hear what, if anything his father had found out so that they could decide if the cases were connected. He was in no mood for hand holding, it sounded harsh, even to himself, but all he wanted was to get the job done, kill whatever needed killing, and get the hell out of dodge. Before any real detective started asking awkward questions, and long before he could run into anyone familiar.

“Are those the files?” Dean asked. He pointed to the two manila folders that were lying next to a framed photograph of a young, red-haired girl. Her smiling face pressed tight to that of a small, mixed-breed dog she held in her arms. He waited as the Principal picked up both folders, and hesitated before looking up to meet Dean’s outstretched hand with a frown. 

“Where did you say you were from again?” The Principal asked. 

“Oregon State, Northwest Region.” Dean pulled out the wallet containing his fake credentials, with an air of confidence born of practice. He flipped it open to reveal his badge and ID, and stretched his arm across the desk so she could see without him having to relinquish his hold on them.

“I’m sorry detective but I have to check. I’m sure you understand?” She smiled for the first time and Dean breathed an inward sigh of relief. He watched her shoulders relax as she handed him both the files. 

Dean nodded, smiled back, then flipped open the top folder and looked down at the photograph of a young, auburn-haired boy with startling blue eyes, his features perfect except for a missing upper tooth. He glanced at the personal information, noted that he came from a single-parent family, father listed as deceased and from what Dean could tell, the kid seemed to be doing incredibly well in all his classes. He closed the folder, and tried not picture the crime scene photographs, the faces of the murder victims with their torn, bloodied corpses or imagine what might have happened to such a young, innocent face. He flipped open the second folder and frowned. 

“Is something wrong detective?” 

Dean wanted to ask if they were brothers, even though he knew they weren’t and nothing he’d read from the reports belonging to the investigation listed any information that they were related, even distantly. The only link he’d noticed was that they were students at the same school, and both had attended and disappeared from its summer program. His frown deepened. The same Auburn hair, same startling blue eyes and perfect features except the second photograph showed no missing teeth. Both seemed to be on the fast track to the school’s enrichment program, but it was more than that. They looked familiar yet for the life of him, Dean didn’t know from where. He’d never seen them before he was sure of it, and neither had been born when he and Sam had stayed in the town. Not that they’d seen much of it outside of several motel rooms, a run-down diner and the local bars. But there was something… a niggling thought that he couldn’t quite grasp. He’d seen them or someone who looked like them. 

“Detective?” 

Dean looked up, shook his head a little to clear his thoughts and regain his focus, to concentrate on what the Principal was saying.

“Is something wrong?”

“They seem to be doing well, the children I mean. At the top of their class,” Dean mentioned and hoped that covered his momentary lapse. 

“Yes, smart as a whip, both of them. Popular too with both their teachers and the other students, and each other, it’s actually rare to see one without the other…” 

Dean watched her features change as the realisation of her words sank in and quickly tried to distract her from dwelling on the emotional impact of the kid’s disappearance. 

“And they’ve both lost a parent?” Dean asked.

“Yes, sad state of affairs,” she answered but didn’t elaborate further. “I’m sorry detective. I wish there were more we could do to help, but I just don’t see that there’s anything to add. We’ve already spoken to several officers both local and state.”

“I understand,” Dean began as he removed a small notebook from the pocket of his shirt and flipped through several blank pages. He glanced down for a second as if he were reading previously recorded notes and then looked up, again with the same, open smile. “I’m here mostly to talk about the pre-crime. I know you’ve probably gone over the same questions several times, but it helps to get a different perspective.” 

“So you don’t think they’re connected to the murders?” She asked.

“We’re keeping an open mind. Sometimes when only one or two detectives’ gather all the relevant information there can be a tendency to fix on one theory. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Dean said.

“If you think it will help?” She offered.

“Did either of the children seem different in the weeks or even days leading up to their disappearance? Was there any behavioural change, change in routine, different friends or did they join an after school activity or suddenly drop out of a current one? Anything you can think of. However small or insignificant,” Dean asked. 

“Well Anthony had a slight tummy ache that day and had visited the nurse, but it was his birthday the day before and there’d been a party, probably too much cake,” the Principal replied.

“Anthony Miller, he was the second to go missing?” Dean asked.

“Yes, six days ago, Thursday the 31st, he turned seven the day before and there’d been a birthday party, several of the children from his class were invited,” the Principal said. 

“And Michael Harris, did he mention feeling ill at all before he disappeared?” Dean asked. He paused as the Principal folded her arms across her body, almost as if she were holding herself, and he noticed her mouth turn downward and pull in slightly at the corners as she shook her head slowly. He got it. He did. They were just kids who had not long joined the school, had been entrusted to their care, and now they were gone. 

“Do you think you’ll find them Detective Washington?” She asked quietly.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Dean assured her. “Is there anything else, anything at all?”

She began to shake her head again and then stopped and looked up at Dean. Her brow furrowed.

“Yes?” Dean asked. 

“Just that Michael also had a birthday the day before he disappeared. They are both in the same grade, both turned seven in the past few weeks, but then you’ll already know that,” she sighed. “I’m sorry Detective. I wish there was something, but they were both present at the final bell. Their coats had been removed from the coatroom and there’s nothing to suggest they didn’t leave with the other children.”

Dean noted her use of the present tense, which meant she believed the kids were alive; she’d been open and seemed genuinely distressed at their disappearance and had given no reason for him to believe otherwise. 

“Just one more thing and then if I could just take a brief look around, I won’t keep you much longer,” Dean assured her. 

“Of course,” she nodded.

“Have there been any reports of electrical faults in the building recently, flickering lights, shorts in the wiring?” Dean asked. He tried for casual even as he saw the way the Principal’s smile disappeared, and her shoulders stiffened as she sat more upright in her seat.

“I can assure you the school and grounds were searched thoroughly, if you’re suggesting there’d been some kind of accident?” She began. 

“Just a formality Dean said, we have to cover all possibilities. If there’s nothing else I’d really appreciate having a look around the kid’s classroom and coatroom, areas they were last seen?” He asked. Dean handed the files back to the Principal, folded his notebook, shoved it back into his shirt pocket and got to his feet. He muscles were stiff from spending two days behind the wheel, and several days before that confined to a motel room or the library and now his jaw ached from too many forced smiles. There was a time when the smiles came naturally and often but again, that was before Sam had left.

Part of him was looking forward to the hunt, for a chance to stretch his legs and his survival skills. To feel his muscles burn and his instincts kick in. Instinct was not a self-sharpening blade and since Sam’s absence his had been too long buried in a book.

Dean had pulled the laptop from its bag the instant he’d arrived back at the motel and placed it on the small table under the window. He’d noticed that John’s truck wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the motel’s parking lot, and even if it were, there was something he wanted to check before talking to his father. Something that had been bothering him from the instant he’d seen the school files. It was more than a coincidence that the kids had been the same age, the exact same age, and that both were fatherless he was sure of it. He didn’t even know why it mattered, but he was sure it mattered to someone, possibly whoever had taken them. It had been at the forefront of his mind since leaving the school, so much so that he hadn’t even remembered to let his eyes wander on the drive through town. He hadn’t scanned the streets for a tall, dark haired someone who just might recognise him, even call him out in front of his father. Then what would say?

_Hey, Dad, remember that time you disappeared for a fortnight and left me and Sam high and dry, well guess what?_

It wasn’t that Dean was scared of seeing him again. He wasn’t. After everything he’d seen over the years there wasn’t much that scared Dean anymore, except maybe himself. Maybe that’s what he was afraid of. That what he’d felt that night was real and not something his mind had dredged up to make the whole, sordid thing seem that much more palatable. Tricked him into thinking it had been good. That there was something between them. A spark. Just so he could look himself in the mirror every single morning since and not feel the twisted knot of shame at what he’d done. 

He’d had a close call at the County’s Record’s Department, had felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Fear. Fear bordering on panic when he’d caught sight of a tall, dark-haired guy, with just the right span to his shoulders. Dean had only seen him from the back. He’d been walking away from where Dean was standing - charming his way toward the information he needed from the pretty, brown-eyed clerk on the front desk - when the guy had turned his head. Dean had felt his heart skip a beat, then speed up. Had even felt a single drop of sweat bead his skin and run in a slow, torturous trail down between his shoulder blades… But he’d soon recovered his composure, realised it was probably the Sheriff’s uniform the guy was wearing and the imminent threat of being called out over the use of fake Law Enforcement credentials by the real thing.

Dean was dragged from his thoughts when the security code on the computer he was trying to access let him in, thanks to the automated tools and script that Sam had written. Perl something or other. Whatever, it got the job done even if Dean didn’t fully understand it and just followed where Sam had led. 

Right now, he was following where Principal Valerie Allen had led. To the sad state of affairs that led to the death of Michael Harris’ father, which he’d discovered from the County Record’s Department occurred 5th November 1996; two days after Dean had left Greenwood and eight months before Michael was born. It wasn’t the death itself that had caused every one of Dean’s instincts to kick in. Even stranger than Anthony Miller’s father also being dead was the fact that Michael’s father, had died while in the custody of the local Sheriff’s department. Followed by Anthony Miller’s father less than four weeks later on the 1st December 1996, after being taken fatally ill while on bail from Greenwood’s Sheriff Department.

And now both their kids were missing and possibly connected to the gruesome murders of two more of the town’s community.

The whole thing stunk to hell and possibly back again and Dean had a feeling it was going to take him along for the ride. It was leading him closer and closer to a place he was certain he didn’t want to go, especially not with his father circling in from another direction and no doubt heading for the exact same destination.

Any doubt, or desperate hope Dean had about the cases being unconnected was dashed the second Michael Harris’ father’s arrest records appeared on the screen. But that wasn’t what caused Dean to take a step back and then another until he felt the backs of his knees connect painfully with the edge of the bed. He sat down, hard, his feet firmly on the floor and thighs spread wide, his elbows digging into his knees as he took a breath and forced himself to relax. He scrubbed one hand across his mouth, took another breath this time deeper than the last, pressed both palms flat to his thighs as he leaned forward and breathed out slow and deep. 

_Peter Harris, arrested 5th November 1996 on charges of, ‘soliciting a prostitute’ and the ‘commercial sexual exploitation of a minor’_

_David Miller, arrested 5th November 1996 on charges of ‘soliciting a prostitute’ and the ‘commercial sexual exploitation of a minor’_

But that wasn’t all because this was Dean and nothing, not a single thing could ever go right for Dean Winchester. No matter how hard he prayed that just once, just this once.

It was the picture on the screen, the photograph of Michael’s father. Even from the head shot Dean could tell he was tall, and wide, a huge bull of man who would stand out in a crowd, especially a crowded bar. Even now, seven years later Dean recognised him instantly, knew it was the man he’d seen leaving the bar with a young, underage kid… 

An Auburn-haired, underage kid with piercing blue eyes.

Dean jumped when he heard the knock at the motel room door, noticed the doorknob twist back and forth, several times. He rose to his feet, a little unsteady at first but soon found his bearings when the knock came again, louder this time. He pulled his Colt 1911, ivory-handled handgun from the waistband of his black pants and held it close to his side as he approached the door. He paused, put his ear to the wood for an instant and then reached to pull back the lock, his gun now raised to shoulder level. 

“Dean open the door,” John shouted.

Dean flipped the lock and pulled the door open at the same time as his father pushed against it. 

“Dammit Dean, what the hell were you doing in here? I was ready to kick the damn door in,” John said, worry evident on his face.

“Sorry, I was hitting the head,” Dean said by way of explanation. He stepped back as John pushed his way into the room and looked around. Dean noticed him catch sight of the laptop, the image of Peter Harris’ face frozen on the screen. Mocking him in glorious high definition. 

“Is that a suspect?” John asked. He walked over to the laptop, turned it around so the screen faced outward and began to scroll down the page. 

“Not exactly,” Dean answered. 

Dean filled his father in on everything he’d learned so far, the connections that kept adding up between the missing kids, the similarities between their family backgrounds and the circumstances surrounding the deaths of both their fathers. If he left out the most important factor, that of having recognised Michael’s father from his last visit to Greenwood and neglected to mention the uncanny resemblance between both the missing boys and the underage kid he’d seen working the bar, the same kid who was most likely the cause of both the men’s arrests - well that was nobody’s business but his own. 

“I’d think it’s a safe bet to say the missing kids weren’t picked at random,” Dean told his father. 

John nodded, pulled out a small, clear plastic bag from his jacket pocket, and held it up for Dean to see before dropping it down on the table beside the laptop. 

“Sulphur,” John added.

“Any connection between the victims?” Dean asked.

“Similar ages but that’s about as much as we’ve got. The first, Rebecca Johnson, worked in the local coffee shop and apparently was part of some local community program. Read to kids in the local library on a weekend. The second, Mitchell Walker, was a college student home on vacation. Apparently he spent most of it volunteering at the animal shelter,” John told him. 

The more Dean heard and the more he saw of the town the more he began to doubt that it was the sort of place he’d believed it to be. Everywhere he’d seen during the drive into town, and through it to meet with the school’s Principal had shown it to be a thriving, family orientated town. Wide-open spaces, bicycle paths, parks, and murder victims who apparently read to kids or took care of family pets in their free time. The only thing he hadn’t seen were the kids. The empty parks, the closed summer school, no high-spirited laughter or bouncing balls, not a single chime of a bicycle bell as the neighbourhood kids raced each other around the block. He hadn’t seen much of the town before, him and Sam having spent most of their days outside of the community or locked behind a motel room door awaiting the phone call that would deliver them from uncertainty or abandon them to the unknown. And their nights, well he’d left Sammy at the motel and deliberately sought out the seedier underbelly and had found it among the drunken hook ups by the back doors of the bars he’d hustled, and the used condoms that littered the urine-stained alleys. 

Nothing of what he knew about the town from seven years ago made sense to what he’d found on his return. Either it had cleaned up its act or something had been wrong for a while, very wrong, and it had gone unnoticed. Unseen for years. Not that that made it worse than if the town had been the seedy, vice-ridden crap hole he’d thought it to be, but he’d have understood why it would have attracted the kind of evil that seemed to have it in its grasp now. Maybe he’d have even looked for a human cause, and he thought he’d have known just where to look too. 

“Dean?” 

Dean turned toward the sound of John’s voice without a clue how to answer not having heard a word his father might have had said in the previous few minutes. 

“Sorry?” Dean asked.

“What has been with you lately? You’ve been off your game since we picked up this case. Is this about your brother, because if it is?”

“I’m just tired. It was a long drive,” Dean said.

“Maybe we should head into town, grab something to eat and call it a night. We’ll pick it up again in the morning, bright and early but change out of those clothes first you look too much like a damn civilian.” John smiled, and Dean found himself wanting to return it for the first time in months.

…

Dean woke the next morning after snatching only three hours sleep, but he felt better for it. Still a little stiff but that was more to do with not having had anything physically taxing to do for a while. That and not having a sparring partner to keep his reflexes sharp. The digital clock by the bed showed it was a little after six, and he decided to forgo the coffee machine in the corner and drive into town and kick-start the day with a decent hit of caffeine. He scribbled a brief explanation on a piece of motel notepaper and shoved it under John’s door on the way out.

He wasn’t surprised by the noticeable police presence as he drove through the town even for such an early start. Nor was he surprised to find himself pulling the Impala into the parking lot of the same diner, he and Sam had spent much of their time in. He kept his back to the alley as he walked across to the door, he refused to so much as glance in its direction, but couldn’t prevent himself from scanning the diner before taking a seat where he could watch anyone who entered. He told himself if he could do this, then he’d prove to himself that he wasn’t the same person he was back then; that he was stronger and more in control then maybe he could get through the next few days without constantly looking over his shoulder.

Plus he’d physically changed. He was taller, broader at the shoulder, and he’d long since lost the lean, youthful look. His jawline was squarer, more defined and his body was harder and more muscled. The kind of muscle that came from a lifetime of being physically active, of needing to be stronger, faster and more able to survive the world unknown to those lucky enough to be oblivious to what was out there, in the dark. Overall, he was well-worn and permanently rough around the edges. 

Dean looked up as a shadow fell across the table and relaxed when he saw a waitress holding a pot of coffee, he nodded, pushed his cup across the table and picked up the menu while she poured. He ordered eggs and a double ration of bacon and forced himself to eat it slowly like any other customer and not shovel it down and make a bolt for the door before the breakfast crowd arrived. He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed when he’d finished his plate and ordered two cups to go without seeing anyone remotely familiar enter the now busy diner. He peeled a few bills from his wallet, dropped them on the counter, picked up the Styrofoam cups in the carryout tray and nodded to an elderly man by the door, who glanced up from his morning paper as Dean passed. 

The whole thing had taken a little over an hour, and the only incident of note was the near miss with the Sheriff’s car as he was pulling out of the diner’s parking lot. He’d been leaning across the dash to change the cassette in the tape deck as the Sheriff pulled in, and he’d had to swerve to avoid colliding with the other car. All in all, it had been pretty uneventful, and it had proven his point. He had nothing to worry about, in all likelihood the other guy had either moved on or forgotten all about him and their sordid one night encounter. After all it had been more than seven years, almost eight. He was probably working himself up over nothing.

The good mood Dean had managed to find for himself soon disappeared shortly after entering the Sheriff’s station. He’d had no problem getting past the front desk since the Sheriff, and most of the deputies were following up what few leads they had and those that weren’t were out patrolling the streets, trying to reassure the community. What had turned his mood sour was the fact that he could find nothing more in the files about the arrests and subsequent deaths of Peter Harris or David Miller. It looked like the investigation had simply ended with their demise, there was a brief report of the bar’s license being revoked, and the closure of the bar and its owner receiving a class two misdemeanour but nothing more. The only report of Peter Harris’ death pertained to a written report on the cause of death that had been forwarded to the Attorney General citing natural causes while in police custody.

“Find what you were looking for?” The desk sergeant asked as Dean was about to leave. His smile open, engaging and with a demeanour that said he’d been around the block a few times. The kind of look Dean knew he could exploit. 

“Not really,” Dean said.

“Anything I can help you with?” the desk sergeant asked.

“I need some information on a death in custody.” Dean walked over to the sergeant’s desk folded his arms and leaned his hip against the wooden frame. He offered a friendly smile, casual but with a hint of authority.

“You’re not with internal affairs are you?” 

“No, just working a different angle on the missing kids, anything to get them home safe, right?” Dean smiled and picked up a silver photograph frame that held a picture of young boy wearing a baseball cap, and holding a bat out in front of him. “Cute kid,” Dean said. 

“My grandson,” The sergeant offered. 

“So?” Dean placed the photograph back on the sergeant’s desk and waited. 

“You’re looking into Peter Harris’ death?” 

“What can you tell me?” Dean asked. 

“There’s nothing much to tell. I was on duty that night. The Sheriff brought him in personally, sober as anything he was, but he didn’t look it. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in days, couldn’t put one foot in front of the other without stumbling, darn near took three grown men to carry him to the holding cell. All the while, he was ranting and raving about how it wasn’t his fault, how he had no control and couldn’t help himself.” 

“And nobody thought that strange?” Dean asked. 

“Sure, the sheriff called the EMS paramedic to check him over, but he had no history of prior medical conditions, no fever. His heart rate was normal. Just between you and me, he looked more tired than sick.”

Dean waited as the desk sergeant looked around, almost as if he were checking no one was in earshot. He looked back at Dean and leaned in a little closer. 

“Pete was a big guy. We’d had him in here once or twice for getting a little rowdy after a few too many but that’s it, nothing even remotely resembling the charges he was brought in for that night, and his poor wife…” 

“So what, he just died?” Dean pushed.

“Just like that. He began making this awful sound in the back of his throat and was struggling to breathe. The man looked like he was dropping pounds with each breath, and then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and it was over. Quick as that. The fight just went out of him,” The sergeant told Dean.

“And the investigation?”

“That’s the other strange thing…” The desk sergeant looked around once more, and Dean had to lean across the desk to hear as his voice dropped to a soft, conspiratorial whisper.

“Those kids? The ones Pete and David were arrested for supposedly having sex with? Nowhere to be found. Gone. Just like that,” he said again, with a click of his fingers. 

“And they were never found or questioned?” Dean asked. 

“No, and no one knows who they were or where they came from, if they were here alone or part of something bigger. Of course, there’s some of us who think…” 

The desk sergeant stopped mid-sentence as the sound of a door slamming shut echoed through the almost empty station and the sound of footsteps neared, then passed by the front office where the desk sergeant was sitting. He rose from his seat, walked slowly across the room, a heavy limp hindering his progress, and Dean wondered if that was the reason he was behind a desk and not out there, searching with the others. Dean waited, watched as the desk sergeant poked his head out the door, looked left then right before closing the door and making his way slowly back to his seat. 

“Believe what?” Dean wanted to drag the information out of him, but he waited. He’d already learned more than he’d hoped and knew sometimes you just had to give them enough rope. 

“That they’re buried out there, in the woods, and it was the guilt that killed both Peter and David,” the desk sergeant finished.

Dean ended the call after learning from John that the body in the morgue, Mitchell Walker bore a strange mark on the axilla. The underside of his arm, directly under the joint where the arm connects with the shoulder. Why his father couldn’t just say armpit, it had taken Dean several seconds, having to close his eyes, tight shut and one or two head tilts to picture it before he’d understood where exactly John had meant. Rebecca Johnson also bore the same mark, but it had been withheld from the press for fear of causing panic that the deaths were ritual killings.

Dean turned the volume down on the Impala’s cassette player, scrolled through the number directory on his phone with one hand and pressed the call button. He stretched his other arm out along the empty seat beside him and waited… 

“Bobby Singer?”

“Bobby its Dean,” Dean said.

“Good to hear from you boy, how have you been?” Bobby asked.

“I’m good. We’re good. Look Bobby I need to ask a favour, a couple actually.” Dean drummed his fingers on the headrest of the passenger seat, wondered how much to tell Bobby and realised he’d have to come clean and listen to the fallout.

“Okay, shoot,” Bobby replied.

“I need you to look up a symbol. It looks like some fancy-ass trumpet with a devil’s tail curving out from it. You know the kind, like the ones you see on those skimpy, red, Halloween costumes?” Dean smiled. “Dude they’re hot,” he added. 

“Trumpets?”

“No, not trumpets. Chicks in skimpy fancy-dress costumes,” Dean said.

“I knew what you meant, you Idjit. Just send me an email with a picture, and Dean?” Bobby replied.

“Yeah?” 

“A picture of the symbol not some half-naked woman with a forked tail,” Bobby told him.

Dean smiled, and bit back the laughter that threatened. Just hearing Bobby’s voice made him feel lighter even though he knew the storm was only moments away. 

“And the other favour,” Bobby asked. 

“I need you to run a check, see if there are any reports of missing teenagers, boys between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Focus on brown-haired and blue-eyed, say in the last ten years. Then run a check to see if any strange deaths occurred in the same area within a seven-year period of them disappearing,” Dean asked.

“That’s pretty specific, any particular reason?” Bobby replied. 

“Just a hunch.” Dean knew it wouldn’t wash, but he tried anyway. 

“Just a hunch, huh?” 

Dean waited. He hoped that Bobby would let it go but the man had a memory like a steel trap and wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. He took a deep breath and braced himself for what was coming.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with you being in Greenwood, Oregon would it?” Bobby asked.

“Bobby don’t,” Dean begged.

“You mean to tell me that something was going on in that town when John left you and Sam there, alone, to fend for yourself?” Bobby demanded.

“Bobby he didn’t know, how could he? This isn’t his fault,” Dean continued.

“He’s a damn hunter. It’s his job to know. Dammit Boy, when are you going to stop defending the man?” Bobby demanded. 

Dean didn’t answer. He knew it would only make the situation worse, if it could get any worse. It wasn’t his father’s fault, but he would never be able to get Bobby to see past what he believed to be John’s ever growing list of failings as a father.

“Just send me the picture, and anything else you have relating to the case, and Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. 

“You watch your back. You hear me?”

Dean heard the click as the connection ended. He closed his phone, pressed it against his forehead and sighed. It was already late in the afternoon, and he needed to check in with the record’s clerk at the hospital. He knew there wouldn’t be an issue accessing David Miller’s health records, not only had he been a suspect in a crime, but it was also an emergency in connection with a crime which meant he wouldn’t need to produce a warrant. After that he fully intended to find some food, and pie, he totally deserved pie after the day he’d had. 

Playing go-between never sat well with Dean even though he seemed to spend his life pigeon-holed into the role. He also wanted to check out the woods for himself. He doubted there’d be any way to tell if there were grave sites out there after all this time, and he knew the Sheriff would have already scoured the area for the most-recent kids, but he still wanted to take a look, once it got dark.

Dean entered the woods from a westerly direction to where the bodies had been found knowing his father was working inward from an easterly direction. John had already covered much of the south side the day before and had found nothing. Dean wasn’t looking for footprints. He knew that would be waste of his time. Dense woodland areas rarely lend themselves to record the passage of feet on the ground, certainly not a lone walker, even with the heavy weight of a body to deepen their step. It was better to look around, to scuff marks on the plants and trees, broken twigs, see the detail around him and not beneath him. Dean was looking for packed-down areas, places where the vegetation was less noticeable but had otherwise abundant growth around it. Any sign that a particular area of ground had a different stage of regrowth.

He shone his flashlight at chest level in an arc, slowly, back and forth while he formed a mental picture of the terrain and tree structure around him to form his bearings, then aimed it lower and began to make his way through the trees. He listened to the faint rustle of leaves and grasses, the breeze hindered by the dense foliage and heard a high-pitched call of a bat as it honed in on its prey in the gathering dark. With each step, he scanned ahead for any sign of man-made clearings in the foliage, while he watched for fallen branches, twisted tree roots that would hinder his progress and carefully skirted over, and around them when they came into view. The temperature had dropped as soon as it had become dark, but he could still feel the faint dampness of sweat as it beaded beneath his chocolate-coloured utility coat. 

He continued at an easy pace for over an hour until he saw the yellow tape that warned him he was nearing the core area of the crime scene - or at least its outer marker - without having seen any evidence of packed-down earth or unnatural clearings, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. From where he was standing Dean could see where the foliage had been cleared and the grass worn down and flattened from where the many deputies and crime scene investigators had walked tracks in and out of the area. He was about to begin the trek back when he heard it. A twig snap. Something, large, heavy, several metres to his right but it was too dark to see through the trees.

Dean shut off his flashlight and backed up several feet until he was sheltered from view by a tall, Golden Chinkapin tree, and leaned against the furrowed, ridged bark. He calmed his breathing until it was slow and measured, and forced himself to remain still. To focus on the sounds around him. He counted to sixty in his head, if it had been John, then Dean knew his father would have given the signal by now. If it was a mule or black-tailed deer, then it would have eased into his line of sight. He waited another minute. Pressed close and tight to the tree, then turned his head. He sucked in his breath, bit down on his bottom lip as a large, spiny burr scraped against his cheek, the burn worth it when he caught a glimpse of the interloper. 

He was standing a hundred feet from where Dean remained hidden, framed by two tall trees either side of him, looking off into the opposite direction. Dean’s first instinct was to reach for his gun, but he hesitated. He realised that whoever it was could be just one of many, and the sound of gunfire would only draw the others to him. Instead, he eased around the tree, slow and careful and allowed his hands to guide his movement while keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the target. He knew the best option was to come out low, if the guy – if he was a guy - had been following him, then he’d look high, at a human level which Dean intended to use to his advantage. He glanced at the ground beneath him then let his gaze travel at a wide angled sweep, took in the trail ahead and around him. When he was sure of his surroundings, Dean stepped out from behind the tree, relied on his feet to feel the surface while keeping the guy at the centre of his vision and using the surrounding trees to break up his own outline.

He took a step forward, careful to move from the middle of his body and shifted his weight until his knee was over his toes to muffle the sound, then straightened up. It was awkward. His natural instinct was to lead with his heel and roll his foot forward, but he knew that would make the most noise and give away his position. He ignored the cramp in his calf and took another step, careful to dodge a patch of dry grass, aware that even the slightest sound would carry. Dean stilled his movement when he heard the other guy take several steps in his direction and waited. Dean watched as he turned in a circular direction and scanned the area, and then he stopped, still. Dean counted out another sixty seconds, in case the other guy decided to double check his surroundings, and eased even closer. 

Dean was no more than ten feet from him when he saw the other guy’s head lift, and his shoulders stiffen. He watched him raise his arm and reach across his chest and into his jacket. Dean crouched low, his feet shoulder-width apart and his knees flexed, and felt his weight push down into the balls of his feet. His heartbeat quickened, and the pulse in his neck jumped as adrenaline surged. He took a deep breath and propelled himself forward as the other guy pulled a gun from the confines of his jacket and began to turn to face Dean.

Dean didn’t give the other guy time to react. As soon as he lifted his arm to raise his gun Dean crowded in against his back. He slipped his own arm into the space the other guy had provided, circled it around the other guy’s chest and forced his arm up and back, hard until the other guy released his hold on the gun. Dean wrapped his free arm around the guy’s neck, pressed the heel of his palm under the other guy’s chin and forced his head back. 

The guy grunted in pain as he arched backward, and Dean pushed upward with the palm of his hand until he was forced backward himself under the other guy’s weight. He was tall, heavy and Dean struggled as he tried to stay upright, he stumbled but didn’t loosen his hold. He shook his head, regained his footing, then jerked them both around and down onto the grass with a thud. Dean came down heavy on top of the other guy, took a deep, ragged breath and reared back as the other guy brought his head up, fast. Dean lashed out and heard a crunch, felt the jolt as his hand connected against bone, the momentum forcing him forward. He felt a flash of pain as his nose connected with the other guy’s head. His vision blurred. Whited out, and he sucked in a deep breath and grunted as their positions were reversed and Dean found himself flat on his back. The air was forced from his lungs as the other guy collapsed on top of him and Dean winced as a broken twig dug painfully into his shoulder. 

“You done?” 

The words were puffed out, ragged and close to Dean’s ear. The sound familiar but he ignored the memory that tried to surface as he struggled to breathe beneath the weight lying on his chest. He dragged in a shallow breath and tried to move, but the weight increased as the other guy pressed closer. The ground beneath him was hard, compact, and smelt rich, sweet with the scent of pine and something else… Something that pierced through the fog of pain and confusion and released a well-spring of emotion. Sandalwood, clean, fresh with just a hint of citrus and instantly he was back there. To that night, could almost feel the scrape of his fingernails against bare brick, and the scorched words of encouragement breathed into his ear. Urging him on, taking him there, to that place of heat and want and the fervour he’d been chasing ever since. 

Dean panicked. He was caught between wanting to push upward, snatch just a second of that heat and test if it was everything he remembered it to be and at the same time, to recoil in horror.

“Get off of me,” Dean grunted.

“Not until you tell me what you’re doing sneaking around a crime scene at night!” Nate demanded. He grabbed the collar of Dean’s jacket, and yanked it hard until Dean’s face was mere inches from his own.

“I swear, when I get up from this floor, the first thing I’m going to do is put a hole in the side of your head, you son-of-a-bitch,” Dean hissed between gritted teeth.

“Dean?” 

Dean’s head hit the floor with a thud, bounced once off the surface, the carpet of fern cushioning the impact as Nate let go of Dean’s jacket and reared back. Dean didn’t hesitate. He locked his fingers around one of Nate’s wrists and placed his foot over Nate’s side and lifted up with his hips. As soon as he felt Nate’s weight shift, lean to the side, Dean twisted, rolled them both until he had reversed their position and jumped to his feet. Dean took several steps back and pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans, and thought noise be damned. 

“Now, you tell me why _you’re_ sneaking around a crime scene at night? And make it good!” Dean demanded. 

“You’re alive?” Nate scrambled to a sitting position, his knees bent and used his hands to push himself upward until he was standing, facing Dean, and took a step toward him.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Do you have any idea how hard I looked for you both?” Nate asked. 

“Why?” 

“Why?” Nate asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

“You heard me,” Dean retaliated.

“Because I had a town where kids where disappearing without so much as a trace and no one who cared enough about them to give a damn. Because I turned around and you were gone, both of you. For all I knew they’d gotten to you too and all I had to go on was a dead suspect and another one who might as well have been dead for all the sense he was making.” 

Dean stepped back as Nate took another step toward him. 

“Did even occur to you that I might have thought you were dead. You and your brother?” Nate asked.

“Why’d you care anyway?” Dean lifted his chin, uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going and cursed the lack of light, and the fact that he couldn’t see Nate’s face. That he couldn’t see the emotion underneath the lies Dean was sure were there. 

“Because I care dammit!” Nate admitted. His voice loud in the quiet of the woods.

Dean heard the truth in Nate’s tone. He’d heard enough lies to know the difference. He lowered his gun, tucked it back into the waistband of his jeans and was about to take a step forward. Not even sure of his intent when he heard the call of a Red-Shouldered Hawk, the first whistle shrill then descending in pitch as it tapered off. He listened, then heard it again, not too far away from where they were standing. 

“Shit,” Dean hissed.

“What?” Nate asked.

“Quiet,” Dean whispered.

“What is it?” Nate asked again.

Dean stepped forward, and covered the distance between himself and Nate in two long strides. He pressed the flat of his hand across Nate’s mouth. His free arm braced across Nate’s breastbone as he forced him backward and slammed him hard against the tall, Golden Chinkapin as the call came again. He felt Nate’s heartbeat, rapid even through the layer of both their coats, the hard wall of muscle concealed by the dark material and his breath hot and ragged against the palm of his hand. He took a moment to just feel, press in as close as he could and buried his face into the crook of Nate’s neck and took in the clean, fresh smell that he remembered. He took another deep breath then pushed himself away.

Dean removed his hand from Nate’s mouth, let his thumb drag across his bottom lip as he eased his hand away and brought a finger to his own mouth, a signal for Nate to stay quiet. He stepped out of the space between Nate’s legs, pursed his lips and let out a shrill whistle, mimicking the earlier call to perfection. 

“Who the hell are you?” Nate asked. 

“You said it yourself,” Dean smiled, “I’m the guy you’ve been looking for.” He stepped back into Nate’s space in one solid movement, grabbed Nate’s collar, pulled him forward and pushed his lips hard against Nate’s and held it. Dean breathed in through his nose, smelt sandalwood with a hint of citrus, and savoured it for a moment then opened his mouth slightly and bit down on Nate’s bottom lip, and sucked it into the warmth of his own mouth. He dug the fingers of his free hand into Nate’s hip, curled them around the well-defined ridge and pulled close and tight. Denim riding against denim as he tilted his head and opened his mouth over Nate’s. Dean tasted the groan that met his tongue. Everything Dean thought he knew about desire, need, about wanting something… someone was buried in that sound and at that moment, he knew he’d do anything to hear it again. He let his mouth linger for a moment longer, then stilled his movement, each of them breathing a shared breath and then Dean pulled back. He slid his hand behind Nate’s neck and pulled him forward, pressed his forehead to Nate’s and just held it there for several, long seconds. 

“Is this the part where you tell me to count, say for at least ten minutes while you make your escape?” Nate asked.

“Sure, if you can count that far.” Dean smiled, stepped out from the protection of the tree, turned, ducked under an overhanging branch to avoid the spiny burrs and took off in the direction of the beam cast by John’s flashlight before Nate could stop him.

Dean stormed into the Sheriff’s station the next morning and slammed the newspaper clipping onto the sergeant’s desk.

“Detective Washington?” The sergeant asked. 

Dean had checked his email that morning after a night of interrupted sleep, dreams that involved hushed words - breathed out - husky and deep, and urging him on, offering encouragement and the promise of fulfilment. He was already in a foul mood when he’d opened Bobby’s email to learn that while he had nothing on the symbol Dean had forwarded to him or the deaths, he had found a month-old newspaper article describing cattle mutilation in Greenwood Oregon. 

“You want to tell me why this wasn’t mentioned in any of the files or investigation reports?” Dean demanded. 

Dean waited, already impatient as the desk sergeant slid the newspaper clipping across his desk, turned it around and frowned up at Dean. 

“Cattle deaths?” The sergeant asked. He pushed the newspaper clipping back toward Dean and folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t think this might have been a practice run or an indicator, a precursor of what was to come?” Dean demanded. Even though he knew it was a demonic omen, he wasn’t ruling out other possibilities and was furious that it had been overlooked.

“They were burned to a crisp, some of them nothing more than ash. We have no idea if the animals were tortured or even harmed beforehand, or just simply set on fire. That article is pure sensationalism,” the Sergeant defended. 

“Simply set on fire? You don’t think burning something alive constitutes to torture?” Dean asked, his voice louder, beginning to carry across the station. 

“Is there a problem?” 

Dean and the sergeant both turned at the interruption to see Nate standing in the open doorway of his office, his arms folded. 

“You have got to be kidding me?” Dean said.

“My office, now!” Nate demanded.

Dean let the door slam shut behind him and came to a stop in the centre of the room. He looked around at the cream-coloured walls, and the framed prints showing different landmarks, and areas of the town. A gun cabinet, its plain glass front showing an impressive collection of Colts, single-action, revolvers, automatics, first and second generation, a couple of Derringers and even a Baby Dragoon and Black Powder that Dean could see were genuine and not replicas. He turned to the huge yew-wood desk with a gold-leaf border and leather finish, which Dean again doubted was a replica. Everything showed a deep connection to the town and a taste for the classic, nothing that shouted, or even hinted that its owner paid underage kids for sex. Finally, he looked at the guy standing behind the desk. His arms still folded and a furious look on his face. 

“You’re the Sheriff?” Dean asked, incredulously.

“And you’re the man who’s been posing as a police detective and asking questions all over town, poking around my investigation,” Nate replied.

“Yeah, well bang-up job you’ve done so far,” Dean said.

 

Nate looked like he was about to explode, and Dean readied himself for the outburst and then frowned, unsure how to react or what to say when it didn’t come. Instead, Nate sighed, sat down in his chair, ran his hand through his coarse, dark hair and looked up at Dean as if he was going to say something, then hesitated. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk, reached in and then threw several photographs across his desk.

“Tell me you’re not involved somehow. Tell me you didn’t leave town after killing those kids seven years ago, and that you’re not back to finish whatever it was you started back then?” Nate said. 

Dean looked down at Nate’s desk, saw two photographs one of Michael Harris and the other Anthony Miller, similar headshots to what he’d seen back at the school. The third photograph was what looked like a local kid’s baseball game. A team photograph probably taken after a T-Ball game and showed both children, smiling, their arms curled around their team mates as they posed for the camera. 

“You’re crazy,” Dean said. 

“Am I?” Nate replied. 

“You are if you think I had anything to do with those kid’s disappearing,” Dean said. 

“You’re alive aren’t you?” 

“What does that prove?” Dean asked, his earlier mood resurfacing fast. 

“I thought the reason you’d disappeared and couldn’t be found - believe me - I tried - was that you were another victim. Yet here you are, alive and well and you just happen to resurface in the middle of another fucked-to-all-hell situation,” Nate said, equally angry.

Dean stepped forward in one long stride, planted both hands, palm down on Nate’s desk and leaned in, his muscles tense, locked and his jaw set. 

“I’m not a killer!” Dean said, his voice quiet, with a dangerous edge. 

Nate rose from his chair, slammed both his hands on his desk and leaned in toward Dean, both men equally furious and neither willing to give an inch. 

“Then what the hell were you doing at the crime scene last night?” Nate asked, matching Dean’s tone as well as his body posture.

“Your job, apparently,” Dean shot back.

“Sheriff?” 

Both Dean and Nate took a deep breath as the door to Nate’s office opened and a young deputy poked his head in warily.

“Not now!” Nate ordered. 

“Yes sir.”

The door closed, and Nate sighed. He slumped back down into his chair and scrubbed his hands across his eyes. 

“You look tired,” Dean told him. He pulled the vacant chair up to Nate’s desk and sat down.

“Just tell me you’re not involved, and I’ll believe you,” Nate said. 

“Just like that?” Dean asked. 

“You didn’t answer the question,” Nate replied. 

Dean took a deep breath, looked Nate square in the face and said, “Nate; I’m not involved. I swear.”

Dean realised it was the first time he’d used Nate’s name. The first time he’d even let himself think it and admitted to himself that he liked the way it sounded as he breathed it out. 

“So, what are you doing here?” Nate asked. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Dean answered.

“Try me,” Nate replied. 

“Demons.” Dean waited for Nate to laugh, or throw him out on his ear, one or the other. 

“What?”

Dean spent the next half hour telling Nate the reason he’d come back. The demonic omens, the murders, the disappearances. The strange similarities between the deaths of Michael and Anthony’s fathers, even stranger that they were both so young, and seemingly healthy. He explained about the symbol he knew was found on each of the victims, the sulphur John had found at the crime scene, everything. 

“I believe you,” Nate told him.

“Again, just like that?” Dean asked.

“I have my reasons,” Nate said. 

Dean didn’t ask, but he could see in the look that Nate gave him that it was the truth. There was something there, he’d seen it before, that night in the alley, he’d sensed there was something about Nate, something dark, but he wasn’t about to push. It wasn’t his business, and it wouldn’t help either of them find the missing kids or prevent another murder and that, Dean told himself was the only reason he was in town. 

“So what now?” Nate asked. 

“We find the son-of-a-bitch and send it back to the hell it crawled out of,” Dean told him.

“How?” Nate asked. 

“First, we find out if there are any more kids who are about to turn seven,” Dean replied.

“You did what?” John bellowed.

“I told him, everything,” Dean replied.

“And why the hell would you do that?” John demanded.

“It made sense. Dad. We’ve got nothing. They’ve got nothing. It makes sense that we work together. What’s more important, our secret or finding those kids,” Dean asked. “If they’re even alive.” 

“And what makes you think he won’t turn on us first chance he gets?” John replied. 

“Because I trust him,” Dean said. 

John shook his head, paced back and forth across the motel room. He looked across at Dean and shook his head again. 

“We’re meeting him in an hour. You don’t have to come, but I’m going,” Dean told his father.

The diner was almost empty when Dean and John walked in, save for a few customers who were too deep in their own conversation to pay them any notice. Nate was sitting at a table toward the back, a manila folder in front of him as he waved them over.

“Nate, this is my father, John Winchester,” Dean offered. 

“Nate stood up and held his hand out to John and John hesitated, looked Nate up and down then grudgingly shook Nate’s hand.

“I’ll tell you now, up front, I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit,” John offered by way of a greeting. 

Nate looked to Dean and Dean simply shook his head and took a seat next to his father. 

“This is everything we have so far,” Nate told Dean. 

Dean picked up the manila folder, opened it and began to flick through the paperwork. He’d seen most of it already, but he wasn’t about to tell Nate that. There were some things Dean figured he was better not knowing. The fact that they’d hacked into both the Sheriff’s and the Federal database being one of them.

“There’s one other kid,” Nate said to both John and Dean. 

Dean waited until the waitress filled their cups, took a drink of his coffee and looked around the diner. No one was paying them any attention except the waitress, Marie, who smiled at Dean from where she was now standing, back behind the counter. 

“And you’re good with this. With having a demon taking pot shots at your community,” John asked. 

“Like I said, I have my reasons,” Nate replied. 

“And those would be?” John pushed. 

“None of your goddamn business that’s what,” Nate said angrily.

“Who’s the kid?” Dean interrupted before it got out of hand. 

“Richard Anderson, born August 14th 1997,” Nate told them. 

“And his father?” John asked. 

“Dead, road accident seven months before Richard was born. All the evidence suggests he fell asleep at the wheel. It’s just his mother and his grandparents,” Nate replied. 

“Do you know whether he was a regular at the bar?” Dean asked. 

“Wait, what bar?” John demanded.

Dean shook his head and gave Nate a warning look. “Nate has a theory. He arrested both Michael and Anthony’s fathers for frequenting a bar in town that was catering to underage prostitutes, young boys. Nate thinks there’s a connection,” Dean added. 

“I never saw him there, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a customer, a paying customer,” Nate said. 

“So, you were a regular. Nice,” John said. 

“The boys in question are missing, presumed dead. Both Michael and Anthony’s fathers both died within a month of being arrested,” Nate said ignoring John’s comment. 

“So, what. We watch the kid and hope the killer… the demon makes its move?” Nate asked. 

“That won’t work,” John replied.

“The demon could be anybody. His teacher, neighbour, even his own mother. We have no idea how close to the kid it already is,” Dean added. 

“We need to talk to his mother, his grandparents, even the kid if we can. Find out if there’s been anyone paying him close attention, singling him out,” John finished. 

“We can start with Ray,” Nate offered. 

“Who’s Ray?” Dean asked.

“You’ve already met him. Sergeant Ray Anderson. He’s one of my deputies, been on the force all his life. He’s also Richard’s grandfather,” Nate told them.

Ray was only too happy to talk to Dean and John, who Nate introduced as Detectives Washington and Bennet, even though he knew it could cost him his career. If they could help find the kids, and stop the murders, he figured it was worth it.

Ray was less pleased when he was told the connections between both the missing kids, and the fact that Richard had a birthday coming up in five days. He went from disbelieving to angry to scared in a matter of minutes but couldn’t offer anything that might suggest that anyone was or had been unduly interested in Richard, other than those closest to him. 

Dean ran his hands through his hair in frustration. They couldn’t ask if any of those closest to Richard had been acting strange without raising suspicion. Especially to a veteran police officer that would probably jump on the question instantly. 

“Has Richard acted out of character, seemed scared or worried,” Dean asked. 

“No why would he have reason to?” Sergeant Anderson replied. 

“What about T-Ball, does he play T-Ball,” Dean asked. 

“Yes, I coach them myself.”

Dean looked down at Sergeant Anderson’s leg, and Sergeant Anderson laughed, although it didn’t quite meet his eyes, which was to be expected after what he’d just been told.

“Don’t let the leg fool you. I can still throw a mean ball, and keep a group of youngsters in hand,” the sergeant told them. 

“Can we talk to Richard,” Nate asked. 

“We’ll keep it simple. We won’t scare him,” Dean added. 

“I’ll speak to his mother, see what I can do,” Sergeant Anderson promised.

“You go on ahead. Fill me in later,” John said to them both.

Dean and Nate sat in the diner, both staring down into their cold cups of coffee, both with the same look of frustration and despondency. They’d spoken to Richard’s mother and assured her that nothing was going to happen to Richard, that he was safe. Nate had told her that he was putting a patrol car outside the house as soon as he got back to the station and another to circle the block at regular intervals. They’d learned nothing from Richard, who seemed normal and happy, and they hadn’t wanted to push, to scare him. Dean had watched the interaction between Richard and his mother and with both his grandparents and had seen nothing to give him cause for concern. He was loved, and he loved them back it was plain for everyone in the room to see. They had nothing, absolutely nothing.

“So what now?” Nate asked. 

“Back to the crime site, to the files. See if there’s something we missed. Hell, I don’t know,” Dean replied. 

“How do you do this day in, and day out,” Nate asked. 

“Same way you do,” Dean told him. 

“But demons?” Nate asked. 

“You get used to it,” Dean replied.

Dean felt Nate slide his booted foot between his own feet, and shifted in his seat, created a space for Nate as he pressed his leg close and tight to Dean’s. Dean didn’t know whether it was comfort or a come-on, but he took it anyway. He looked across the table at Nate and tried for a smile but failed miserably. 

“We’ll find them,” Nate said. 

Dean heard the doubt in Nate’s voice and was about to reply when his phone went off in his pocket, he answered and immediately picked up the urgency in John’s voice. 

“We have to go,” Dean told Nate. He was already up, and out of his seat before he’d even finished the sentence.

Dean walked into John’s motel room. Nate close on his heels to see John on the phone. He waved them in with his free hand and looked pointedly at Dean.

“Okay Bobby thanks.”

Dean frowned. He knew it had to be bad if his father had contacted Bobby himself. Usually it was Dean, who played go between. It had been that way ever since Bobby had chased John off his property with a shotgun full of rock salt when Dean was twelve. Dean had forgiven Bobby, but his father never had, and Bobby refused to forgive John for dragging both his boys along on his quest for vengeance. 

Dean took in the books on the table, Psellus' classification of demons, another by Spina and John’s own copy of the Dictionnaire Infernal that Sam had found in an old bookshop and given to John. All open and depicting different supernatural creatures and their lore next to the many pieces of paper strewn across the table, the bed and several that had fallen to the floor. 

“It’s a goddam Incubus,” John said. He threw his phone down onto the bed and turned to face Dean and Nate. 

“But the murders. The symbols on each of the victims?” Dean asked. 

“A what?” Nate asked at the same time. 

“I know, I can’t explain it either but trust me, it’s an Incubus all right,” John replied. 

“But how?” Dean asked. 

“The fact that the fathers of all the kids are dead, probably had the life sucked right out of them. They probably weren’t the real fathers anyway.” 

Dean watched John pace the room for several long moments. Finally he walked over the table, picked up one of the books and thrust it toward Dean.

“I knew. As soon as you mentioned that damn bar and the deaths, I knew,” John continued. 

Dean looked down at the book John handed him. Open and bookmarked to a page on lore that described how repeated intercourse with an incubus or succubus may result in the deterioration of health, or even death. 

“The missing kids? An Incubus always returns for its kids, Dean you know that,” John stated.

“What’s an Incubus?” Nate asked again.

“It’s a demon. It attacks people as they sleep, women, has sex with them, sometimes to father its offspring, mostly for the sex,” Dean told Nate.

“Dad, these were boys, not women and the men weren’t asleep. They were very much awake and more than willing. Incubi don’t go after men,” Dean said. 

“Apparently they do, or so Bobby tells it, and he’s rarely wrong,” John told Dean. “They’re a dying breed. Incubi outnumber the females nine-to-one. Take into account the nest of Succubi I took out in ninety-one and the one you killed in Brooklyn last year.” 

“Damn, so those missing teenagers weren’t missing at all, they were demons?” Dean said.

“Explains why the dead men were so willing, even the strongest willed person will bend to the charm of an Incubus,” John added.

“I still don’t understand the murders, are they connected or not?” Dean asked. 

John looked at Dean, and Dean shook his head. Neither had an answer and neither it seemed was willing to make a guess, not when it involved the life, nor death of another person. The room fell quiet, uncomfortably quiet, and Dean wanted to say something, anything to break the silence. He’d promised Nate that they’d help, that they’d find the kids and whoever, or whatever was responsible for the killings, but they hadn’t done either. He should have spotted it sooner, and already the guilt was setting in. He didn’t know if John was pissed at him for not making the connection, whether Nate was pissed at him for not coming through when he’d promised, but really it didn’t matter. It was his fault, and he knew it. 

Dean was saved from any further self-loathing when Nate’s phone rang. He watched Nate’s expression change from worried to panic and knew that what was a bad situation had just become a whole lot worse. 

…

“You said this wouldn’t happen. You gave me your word.”

“Ray, I’m sorry,” Nate said. 

“Just find him. He’s all my daughter has, what with his father gone, and now… Just find him, please,” Sergeant Anderson begged.

Nate had pulled out all the stops, the dogs involved in the search were both, air-scenting dogs and trail-scenting, and as he’d confided in Dean, though Dean could see he was loathed to admit it. He’d called in two cadaver dogs.

They’d split into small teams each consisting of three deputies, a point person and two flankers, the point person being the most experienced, which meant Nate calling in extra hands, but they’d been more than willing to help. Nate and Dean worked the eastern side with one of the dog handlers but the problem they were having was finding vegetation, and signs where foliage had been disturbed or passed through. The past month had seen so much activity, the previous searches, and the crime scene investigators that it was becoming impossible to know what was new and what they’d caused themselves. It was made worse by the trees, and foliage itself. Several times Dean had swept his flashlight across an area and thought he’d seen something, movement, but each time it had turned out to be nothing more than a shadow cast by an overhanging branch. That and the beam from the flashlight was affecting his night vision, and before long he was seeing shadows where there weren’t any shadows. 

Nate called in over his radio, asked for each team to check in with an update but the only response he got back was that the dogs were tiring, and no one had found any sign of Richard or anything that proved he’d ever been in the woods at all. Nate threw his flashlight in frustration. It bounced off a nearby tree, landed in the dirt, and spun sending a beam of light in several directions before coming to a stop and blinking out. 

“We can pick up again in the morning,” the dog handler offered. 

Nate shook his head and Dean wanted to go over, and do something, say something, but he knew there was nothing to be done or said that would make either of them feel any better. They both knew that wherever Richard was they weren’t going to find him, no matter how hard they looked. 

“What the hell am I going to tell Ray?” Nate asked. 

“Nate, go home. Get some rest,” Dean told him.

Dean was stretched out on his bed, arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, and trying to piece everything together. Trying to figure out what they’d missed when the knock sounded, loud in the otherwise quiet of the room. He rose from the bed, walked barefoot across the floor and opened the door expecting to see John.

“Need some company?” Nate asked. 

Dean stepped back as Nate walked past him, and into the room brandishing a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. Dean closed the door and leaned against it. 

“Is this my fault?” Nate asked. “I keep thinking, if I’d have looked harder for those missing kids seven years ago. If I’d not given up. If I’d followed my gut. I knew it wasn’t right. I just had this feeling…” Nate unscrewed the lid and took a hit, straight from the bottle. 

Dean pushed himself away from the door, walked over to Nate and took the bottle from his hand, he kept his eyes on the bottle as he placed it on the bedside table with a quiet thud before he turned to face Nate. 

“Is this my fault?” Nate asked again. The words whispered across the short distance that separated them.

Dean closed the gap between them, breathed in Sandalwood, the scent that seemed to wrap Dean in heat, and a warmth that settled in the pit of his stomach. He circled his hand around the back of Nate’s neck and pulled him in. The kiss was hard, not meant for comfort, just taking and giving and born of mutual need. Need for something other than the hell they’d all been living the past few days. Need for escape. Need for release. Need for each other. 

And Dean admitted he did need Nate, right now. In this moment, he really fucking needed him. It was a need that he’d had for a long time, one that had worked its way inside of him, wrapped itself around his insides and staked its claim. 

Dean stepped back, grabbed the hem of his faded blue T-shirt and pulled it over his head in one straight move and watched as Nate unbuckled his belt. Nate toed off one shoe, then the other, tugged the top button free of his jeans and reached for the hem of his shirt. 

“Here, let me do that?” Dean stepped forward, grabbed the shirt’s hem and pulled it up over Nate’s head. His fingers grazed at warm skin, and Dean heard, and felt Nate’s sharp intake of breath. He reached down to free the rest of the buttons on Nate’s jeans but Nate stilled his hand, and shoved Dean back toward the bed, and Dean went with it. All he wanted was a flat surface, something solid beneath his back and Nate’s weight above him, on top of him, hot, solid, and hard. He dropped down on to the mattress, pushed his heels in, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and shrugged them down, past his thighs and raised his legs as Nate took a hold and yanked them free. 

Dean scooted up the bed as Nate braced one knee against the mattress, leaned in, inches from Dean’s face, from his mouth, and Dean was done waiting. He wet his bottom lip with his tongue before letting it rest between his teeth, mouth widening to form a grin and Nate smiled down at him, slow and easy. He leaned in closer, so close that Dean could see the fine sheen of sweat on Nate’s skin, and Dean wanted to reach up, take hold but Nate lowered his head, took Dean’s mouth in a swift, hard kiss and then eased away. 

Dean watched as Nate unfastened the rest of the buttons on his jeans, pushed them down past his hips, and shrugged them off. He let his gaze drift across Nate’s strong, tanned shoulders. The indent of his collar bone, down his hard, flat stomach to the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath Nate’s shorts. Then lower, down along the taut muscular length of his legs. Nate hooked his thumbs into his shorts and pushed them down, all the way and Dean breathed in, held it and released it on a moan. He reached for his own shorts, yanked them off in one swift move, and spread his legs as Nate walked over to the bed. He braced himself above Dean and pressed into the space Dean created, his hands, flat, either side of Dean’s head as he lowered his own. Nate swiped his tongue across Dean’s nipple, teased it until it hardened and then sucked it into his mouth. 

Dean groaned, arched his back, lifted his hips and felt his cock slide against Nate’s hard, swollen length. Dean tried to keep his hips still as Nate licked a path across his chest, pressed open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, then down toward his other nipple. Nate caught it between his teeth, and then soothed it, rasped his tongue over the hardened peak. 

“You have no idea how much I want to be inside you,” Nate whispered. His voice quiet, barely audible and filled with need.

Dean groaned in response. He raised his leg, knee bent, pushed his heel into the mattress and lifted his hips and felt his cock slide up against Nate’s, felt how hard Nate was, and groaned louder. Dean wanted closer, needed, he wanted Nate’s heated skin flush against his own. He lifted his leg, hooked it around Nate’s waist, his heel pressing down into the small of Nate’s back and forced Nate down. 

“Closer,” Dean groaned.

Nate slid his hand along Dean’s leg, kneaded his way up his muscular thigh, learned its shape, then pushed it upward and pressed down, rutted his hips against Dean.

“Again.” Dean bit his lip, arched his back. He wanted more, wanted to feel Nate’s cock inside him. He wanted that feeling of fullness. He wanted, needed to feel Nate’s cock push hard and deep. 

“Just fuck me, Nate,” Dean pleaded. 

Nate eased away, and Dean pushed himself further up the mattress, waited as Nate reached over the edge of the bed, grabbed his jeans and pulled a foil packet from the pocket. He ripped it open with his teeth and spat the torn corner onto the floor, rolled the condom down, over his cock and hissed out a breath. He stared at Dean, features flushed and filled with want as he gripped the base of his own cock and groaned. He moved closer, braced himself above Dean. He stroked his hand up and along the back of Dean’s thigh, dug his fingers into muscle and pushed Dean’s leg up. 

Dean breathed in, released his breath on a long groan. His skin tightened, pulling on the fine hairs as Nate stroked his hand up Dean’s thigh, causing goose bumps to appear. Dean was ready, more than ready, had been ready since Nate first stepped a foot into the room. He lifted his hips, eager for the feel of Nate’s cock against his entrance. Instead, he felt hot breath ghost across his stomach. An open-mouthed kiss planted on his hip and pleasure as Nate licked a path along the underside of his cock. 

Nate pushed Dean’s leg back further, higher, shifted slightly and Dean tried to take back the distance, get closer and cried out when Nate pressed the flat of his tongue against his entrance. 

“Fuck,” Dean hissed. He lowered his hand to Nate’s head, fingers aching for purchase. He slid them through the coarse, thickness of Nate’s hair, curved his hand around the nape of Nate’s neck as he pushed Nate’s head down. Dean breathed out, a low, throaty, desperate sound, lost in the feeling of heat and touch, and want, oh, god, please, and now. And Nate gave it to him. He used his thumbs to tease Dean’s ass cheeks apart and licked the sensitive skin around his entrance, up along his perineum and then back down, and pressed in with the tip of his tongue. Nate’s breath hot against Dean’s hole. Nate pushed in deeper with his tongue, curled the tip upward and Dean forgot to breathe. He forgot all about the case, his reason for being there. It was just the two of them and this moment. He spread his legs wider as Nate licked around his entrance, up between his ass cheeks, then back down again and pushed in again with his tongue, curled it a second time, and then pushed in some more. 

Dean breathed out a sound that began on a low, deep moan and ended on Nate’s name. 

“Nate, please?”

Nate pressed an open-mouthed kiss against Dean’s entrance, and moved up the bed an inch. Kissed the head of Dean’s cock. Another inch and licked a stripe from Dean’s navel all the way to the hollow of his throat. He lifted up and over Dean, one hand pressed tight to Dean’s thigh, holding his leg, bent at the knee as he pushed it up and gripped the backboard with his free hand.

“Not until you kiss me.” Nate smiled, slow and easy with a hint of promise.

“What?” Dean rasped. 

“Not hard. Not Fast. I want to know if the fullness of that bottom lip feels as good as I’ve imagined it would. I want to suck on it. Hold it between my teeth. I want to feel your pleasure. I want to taste it as you take me in,” Nate rasped.

“God, yes!” Dean reached up, grabbed a handful of Nate’s hair and dragged him down. He slanted his mouth over Nate’s and tasted, sweat, Johnny Walker and sex. He opened his mouth, welcomed Nate’s tongue with his own and then stilled as Nate sucked on his bottom lip. Nate took it between his teeth and bit down, then laved it with his tongue to soothe the sting, and pushed his mouth against Dean’s, hard, slanted his lips back and forth. Nate groaned into Dean’s mouth, the sound almost Dean’s undoing. He snaked his hand down between Nate’s shoulder blades, fingers splayed, and felt the sweat that beaded against his skin. Slid his hand lower, to the small of Nate’s back, over the curve of Nate’s ass, his palm pressing down against muscle and pushed Nate down until, they were skin on skin. Until he felt the hard press of Nate’s cock, hard and wet against his entrance. 

Nate lifted his hips, just an inch, released the pressure on Dean’s leg, smoothed his hand down the inside of his thigh, and brought it up over his shoulder. He positioned himself over Dean. His free hand gripped tight to the backboard, and looked down at Dean as he pressed forward, and in. All the way in. Dean watched, waited as Nate held himself still for an instant, not moving save for the rise and fall of his chest as he tried to control his breathing then withdrew and thrust back in, deep and fast.

Dean twisted his fingers in the sheet beneath him, bunched them up in his fist and lifted his hips, felt the tight stretch of his inner muscles as Nate withdrew and thrust back in, hard, and deep. Withdrew only to push back, deeper still. Long sure strokes, his weight braced above Dean, and Dean watched the look of pleasure on Nate’s face. Heard Nate whisper his name, saw him swallow, heard him groan as he thrust his hips, harder, and it felt so good. He wanted to give in to the feel of Nate inside him. To close his eyes and just feel the rhythm, the heat, the fullness, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Nate’s face. He wanted everything. He wanted to feel. He wanted to hear. He wanted to watch as Nate came apart above him, and listen to the almost ragged sounds that Nate was making. 

Dean lifted up, forced Nate deeper, and felt large hands grip his hips hard enough to leave imprints as Nate held him still, tried to set an even rhythm but Dean surged upwards, and increased the pace, desperate for contact, his breath almost scorching his lungs as it hissed past his dry lips.

“Dean?” Nate breathed. Part plea, part moan and gave in to Dean’s demands.

Nate made a fist around Dean’s cock. Gripped him tight and fisted him hard and fast. And that _was_ Dean’s undoing. He lifted his hands, gripped Nate’s hips, his thumb pressing into the sharp ridge and dragged him closer, forced him deeper. The coarse feel of Nate’s pubic hair against his balls, the way they tightened against his ass…

Nate fisted Dean harder as he thrust upward, held the rhythm. Stroked upward against Dean’s cock as he pushed in. Slid his hand back down as he withdrew. Over, and over again.

Dean cried out, arched upward, and threw his head back as Nate slammed into him, once, twice, a third time. Dean lifted into each thrust, welcomed it, knew he was close, Nate too, could tell by the way his thrusts became shorter, faster, and more erratic. All rhythm lost as each chased the other to fulfilment. 

Nate lowered his full weight against Dean, buried his face in the hollow of Dean’s neck, his hand trapped between their bodies as he continued to fist Dean’s cock and the friction pushed Dean over the edge. He knew he wouldn’t last another second. He twisted his head to the side, felt Nate follow the movement. Felt him lick at the warm skin at the juncture of Dean’s throat, his mouth open. Hot breath puffed out against his pulse point until Dean arched, cried out Nate’s name and felt warm come splash against his stomach. 

Nate bit down, teeth sharp against Dean’s shoulder, he thrust once, deep, hard, twice and then stilled. Just short, shallow jerks of his hips as he moaned his orgasm against Dean’s sweat-soaked skin and then collapsed on top of Dean. 

…

Dean buried his head in his pillow when he heard the shrill sound of his phone. He wanted to ignore it but knew he couldn’t. He wanted to stay where he was, cocooned in sleep, with the solid weight against his back, the arm thrown over his hip, and the possessive grip of long fingers holding him close. Just for a while, before the world came crashing back in. He tried to move and heard the low rumble of a complaint from behind him, smiled because it seemed Nate was as content as Dean to just remain where they were. Dean lifted up on one elbow and reached for his phone as Nate’s began to ring.

Dean walked with Nate toward the yellow crime-scene tape, visible in the early-morning light. The body of Laura Williams, aged seventeen had been found a little over an hour ago. It was unclear at what point she’d been killed, but they had a time frame of within the past twenty-four hours, probably less seeing as how they’d had cadaver dogs in the area only twelve hours earlier, and they hadn’t picked up her scent. The faces of the deputies showed a similar expression to the mood Dean was experiencing. If they’d have put this together earlier, found the demon, then maybe there wouldn’t be another body. Maybe they could have spared her the pain she must have experienced, the fear. Maybe she’d still be alive.

Maybe.

“What have we got?” Nate asked the deputy closest to the crime scene perimeter. 

“We don’t know the exact time she was abducted. Her parents didn’t call it in until after she failed to come home last night. She left the house a little after ten that morning. It could have been any time after that,” The deputy told them. 

Dean followed Nate inside the perimeter, careful to stay away from the core area, in case they contaminated the scene and watched solemnly as the pathologist examined the body. 

She was pretty, even in death. If you ignored the wounds and the blood that stained her beautiful honey-blonde hair. She was small framed. Slim, and beautiful and Dean wanted to break something. He wanted to vent and smash his hand against something hard and hear it shatter beneath his fist; he wanted to find the demon and make it pay. He wasn’t the kind to torture. He much preferred a quick kill, but with this one, he was willing to make an exception.

“She’s been dead around four hours. Only the small muscles of her face and neck are in rigor. It could be three but definitely no more than four,” the pathologist told Nate. He pointed to an area above her collarbone, and a camera flash went off, illuminating the scene further, highlighting the horror as the photographer captured the evidence.

“Was she killed here or moved afterward?” Nate asked. 

“Judging by lividity, I’d say she was killed here. You can see the dark purple discolouration on her sides and back where gravity has pulled the blood down,” the pathologist answered.

“And the heart and liver?” Nate asked as the camera flash went off again.

“Missing,” the pathologist told him. He finished examining the body, and then placed clear plastic bags over her hands and bare feet and sealed them to protect any evidence.

“You can let the crime scene guys in now,” Nate said. “I want everything, grass and soil samples as well as the regular trace evidence.

“Just one thing,” the pathologist said.

Nate and Dean both turned at the same time. 

“I can’t be positive until I get her back to the lab, but I’d say you have more than one killer.”

“What?” Nate asked.

“The previous two bodies showed evidence of hesitation marks. Smaller wounds around the main entry point. This one doesn’t show any evidence of that. Whoever killed this poor girl, didn’t hesitate,” the pathologist said. 

Dean watched Nate’s face. He didn’t want to think of himself as being used to death, you never got used to it but the emotions become blunted after a while. Or maybe he just closed himself off from it, focused his emotions and energies on whatever had done the killing. At least, he got to kill the bad guy, experience the feeling of satisfaction that its life was as much over as the lives it had taken. He got to see its face knowing it was experiencing its final moments, and that retribution had found it. 

Nate didn’t even have that. 

He had three bodies. Three missing kids, their parents and a town that was terrified that anyone of them could be next. That their children were being picked off one by one, and all of them looking to Nate to find the person responsible. 

Dean followed Nate back along the route they’d taken, unaware that he’d slipped his hand beneath Nate’s jacket, pressed it against the warmth of his skin as they walked, both silent.

Dean scrolled through the contacts on his phone and hesitated when Sam’s name came up. He wanted so much to call him. He’d spent the morning at the library poring through books and religious texts for anything related to the heart and liver, or the damned symbol while Nate attended a town meeting. They could really use Sam’s help. This was his territory. Piecing everything together. Dean had spent several hours on the laptop, but he was at a loss and wished he’s paid more attention when Sam used the internet for research.

But more than that he just wanted to hear Sam’s voice. 

They’d heard back from the pathologist who had told them that the third killing was definitely a separate killer and Dean highly doubted they had a copy-cat on their hands. None of it made sense. Richard’s birthday wasn’t for another three days, and the killer had been so meticulous about dates. The hesitation marks on the other victims. Dean had argued that the killer could have gained confidence now that he had two kills under his belt, but the pathologist was certain. It wasn’t just the lack of hesitation marks. This was more brutal, almost as if the killer had enjoyed it, which sounded like every demon he’d ever read or been told about but hesitation marks?

He really wanted to talk to Sam. He wasn’t even angry anymore that he’d left, at first he’d been furious and if their father hadn’t had stepped in…

It wasn’t anger that kept him from calling. It was that he wanted this for Sam, his shot at normal. If it meant that much to his brother, then Dean wanted to give him it, and calling him now would be dragging him back in. Reminding him that there was a whole other world out there, one Sam hadn’t wanted any part of. Richard was the last anyway there weren’t any more children with a seven-year birthday approaching, so maybe the demon was done. 

Or was it just done with this town?

Who was to say there weren’t other towns out there? That its pack of demon spawn didn’t just make Greenwood another stop on their way to impregnating God knows how many women. Killing off their fathers and waiting for the demon to come and gather up its children, so they could repeat the cycle all over again. 

Because Dean didn’t doubt it. The kids back then, the teenagers with their beautiful faces and charming ways were once innocent seven-year-olds, snatched away from their parents and raised to a life of death and destruction. 

“Christ!” Dean exclaimed as the realisation hit him. 

The thought made him sick to his stomach. It had been staring him in the face the whole time. 

Dean opened up the laptop and began his search, not for missing teenage boys as he’d asked Bobby. But for missing seven-year-olds. He had no idea how long it had been going on, how far back this thing went, but he was going to damn well find out. 

Three hours later and Dean felt even worse. It was abhorrent to even consider, so much so that if he were to cut himself now he was sure his blood would run cold. It was heinous and too much to even consider but he knew it was the truth. Knew it in the pit of his stomach and right down to his very last bone. So many kids, who were once innocent and were now out there, older, more tempting, luring whoever was weak enough to fall for their beauty, their charm, and their guise. Producing more who could be plucked when the time was right, their identity stripped and their humanity purged and round and round it went. 

And the murders, the death toll..?

He picked up his phone from the bed, scrolled through his contacts, fingers shaking to the point where he almost dropped it twice, but finally, he hit the call button.

“Bobby Singer?”

“Bobby, it’s Dean,” Dean said.

“You sound like crap boy,” Bobby replied.

“Bobby just listen. What does it take to purge someone of their soul?”

“Something big. Something so terrible you could never conceive of it,” Bobby told Dean. 

“Like a seven-year-old committing murder?” Dean asked. 

“That would do it,” Bobby replied. 

“But you’d need a ritual. And it would have to be on a certain day,” Bobby said.

“Would their birthday count?” Dean asked. 

“No, that’s not enough. Again, you’d need something big. It would have to be significant to the demon, so it would not only desecrate the soul but the goodness the soul represents,” Bobby told Dean. 

Dean sighed. He ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair while he paced the room. “Bobby, why would a seven-year birthday be significant?” Dean asked. 

“It could be a coming of age?” Bobby answered. 

“Okay, start with that, anything you can find. Then check the dates of the murders, and Richard’s birth date, see if their significant and Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“Do it fast? We only have three days to find this kid before it’s too late for him,” Dean said. 

Dean ended the call and sat down on the bed, head in his hands. He didn’t want to admit it but he knew it was already too late for the other two children. They’d crossed over. They weren’t human anymore.

But maybe they could save Richard. 

…

“You’re insane!” Nate shouted. 

“No, insane is what we do,” Dean replied. 

“You’re talking about children. You saw that poor girl in the woods. Do you honestly think a seven-year-old child could have done that?” Nate demanded. 

“No, that was the demon. To throw us of its scent. Make us think it was over,” Dean replied. 

“I don’t believe it. I damn well won’t believe it!” Nate shouted again. 

Dean watched Nate pace. He could explain the hesitation marks to him, that no demon would ever hesitate, would relish the pain and suffering. He could remind him that Laura William’s body was devoid of any hesitation. Remind him what the pathologist told them. He could tell him that it was important that Richard hit his seven-year milestone before he could be brought into the fold but what would be the point? 

This was Nate’s town. Nate’s community. It wasn’t just a case to him. It was his people, people he’d sworn an oath to protect. Dean had sworn an oath to kill the supernatural, whatever form it took. 

“Dean, they’re children,” Nate said quietly.

“Not anymore they’re not,” Dean replied. 

“You’re not serious?” Nate asked.

“Deadly. They’re hell spawn,” Dean said.

“And Richard?” Nate asked. 

“All depends on if we get to him in time,” Dean replied. 

“And if we don’t?” Nate asked. 

“Then you had better pray I don’t find him,” Dean told Nate.

Dean flinched as the door slammed shut behind Nate. He hadn’t known what to expect when he told him, maybe if he was honest he’d expected it to be a lot worse. To be called a monster. Wasn’t that what contemplating killing a seven-year-old kid made him? But he knew the truth about evil. How it also lurked among the bumps and the pushchairs. Took the young and the old. The willing and not. 

If it was supernatural, they killed it. 

Christ, no wonder Sam wanted out. 

“I told you it was a mistake telling him,” John stated. 

This time it was Dean who slammed the door. 

…

Dean spent the next three hours driving with no destination in mind and no one beside him in the passenger seat to soften the blow. No one to ask him to turn the music down or who understood the need to have it so loud in the first place. No one to sing the chorus of a lame-ass excuse for a rock song while Dean argued it rocked, on occasion. He stopped off at the liquor store on the way back to the motel, hoping that John was either, asleep or well on his way to getting as drunk as Dean had every intention of becoming. 

Another day almost over which left two days to find Richard before he vanished forever or Dean had to put a bullet in his head. 

Even with the aid of alcohol Dean couldn’t sleep, and what little sleep he did get was plagued with dreams of kids with black eyes and the accusing looks of their parents as they turned their tear-stained faces to Dean. Of the rigid set to Nate’s shoulders, his hands balled into fists as he’d stormed out of Dean’s motel room. The look on Nate’s face, the unspoken accusation that, nonetheless, told Dean exactly what Nate thought of him. 

Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed, determined he was never going to drink again, even as he eyed what was left of the bottle of Johnny Walker Red that Nate had brought. He made his way over to the bathroom, pulled his shirt over his head, unbuttoned his jeans, and reached to turn on the shower. He tried to swallow past the dryness in his throat, reached for the toothpaste and brushed away the gravel-like taste in his mouth as the bathroom filled with steam. A minute later and he was already feeling slightly better, or at least his mouth was. He ducked his head under the stream of water from the faucet and rinsed out his mouth, one arm resting on the basin for balance as he lifted his head, wiped the condensation from the mirror and winced. He looked tired, and edgy and it showed. His skin looked dull and dry, even with his usual outdoor tan, it was noticeable. His brow was furrowed and even though he liked to keep two or three-day’s growth he was in definite need of a shave. 

Dean shrugged off his jeans and shorts and climbed beneath the soothing heat of the shower. He closed his eyes against the feel of the spray, turned his head towards the source of the heat, and relaxed into its welcoming warmth. He was tired and hung-over, and angry. At John for being right, again. At Nate for not understanding. And at himself for caring either way. 

Why couldn’t Nate understand that he was trying to break the cycle, trying to prevent the same thing happening again? That he was trying to save lives. 

Dean climbed out of the shower, rubbed the towel quickly over his damp skin, scrubbed the second roughly over his hair before draping it around his neck and securing the first firmly around his hips. He padded barefoot into the other room, turned on the laptop, and the coffee machine, then grabbed the last clean pair of jeans he owned, a black T-shirt and headed back into the bathroom. He was determined that today was the day he was going to find Richard Anderson. He told himself it had nothing to do with wiping the look of disgust from Nate’s face and everything to do with killing the demon that had wreaked so much devastation in his town. 

…

Dean took a mouthful of his coffee and grimaced to find it cold. He placed the mug back down beside the laptop, scratched at his, now only slightly stubbled chin, and stared at the laptop screen. He scrolled down the page and blanched when he saw the images of mutilated cattle, the fire that licked at their flesh. 

_The black heifer must be burned alive. Its screams of pain become one with the ash. Its cloven hooves ground to dust and placed in the vessel with the ash and blood of the demon._

_In order to purify a child who has become ritually contaminated by contact with a heavenly baptism, blood from the vessel is sprinkled on to him, using the feet of a cockerel, on the third and seventh day of the purification process._

_The seventh day being the day after the seventh birthday when the child comes into its kinship._

“The son-of-a-bitch,” Dean hissed. He checked the date, August 12th. Richard would be turning seven in two days, when he would come into his heritage. The ritual had to be performed the day after his birthday, no doubt followed by the act of murder that would sever what little humanity he had left.

That gave Dean two days to find him. 

Dean poured himself a fresh coffee and took a long swallow of the burning liquid. He knew more than he’d known yesterday, it wasn’t much, but at least he knew that the demon had to stick to its dates. That for the next three days, Richard would be safe and unharmed. 

He’d also learned a lot about the number seven, most of which was of no use to them, but he did find a religious script which described the number as symbolising completeness or perfection, which made sense. The coming of age, the children were complete, perfect in the eyes of their father and ready to complete the transition from hybrid to demon. 

He’d also learned the significance of the murders, thanks to Bobby who was hopefully closing in on the demon’s identity. Not only was the timing of the murders desecrating the kid’s souls but a virtuous day in the religious calendar. Rebecca Johnson, and Mitchell Walker were both killed on the feast day of a virginal saint, which Bobby had told Dean made sense. An Incubus or sexually depraved demon would relish desecrating anything pure and chaste but the most telling date was Richard’s. He was to turn seven on the 14th and if like the others he were to murder the following day then it would desecrate the most virginal of them all. Sunday August 15th, the assumption of Mary which Dean now knew, again thanks to Bobby celebrated the bodily taking up of the Virgin Mary into Heaven at the end of her earthly life.

Dean took a deep breath, and let the significance of the dates for each of the murders sink in. He was sure of two things, that the demon had definitely selected its dates with care, and that it was no accident the children’s birthdays coincided with such important dates in the religious calendar. And that whoever the demon was he was higher up the pecking order than they’d seen before. He finished his coffee in two swallows, sat down on the edge of the bed and shoved his feet into his boots, laced them up and was out the door and a half way to the Sheriff’s station before he’d even realised where he was going.

Dean pulled the Impala into the empty space beside Nate’s patrol car, uncaring that it was marked as reserved in bold white paint and made his way across to the main door. Dean wasn’t surprised to see a different face at the sergeant’s desk, but it did give him a moment’s pause to think what Sergeant Anderson, and his family must be going through, but he shook it off. The demon couldn’t stay hidden forever and maybe by trying to throw them off its scent it had put them on the path leading straight to it. Without the differences in the third murder, the fact that it had let its enjoyment of the kill blind it to the mistakes it was making Dean would never have made the connection to the children.

Dean rapped his knuckles on Nate’s office door, and walked straight in without waiting for an invite. Nate was sitting behind his desk, a framed photograph in his hand, which he quickly shoved into the open drawer of his desk, slamming it shut with more force than was necessary. 

“What the hell do you want?” Nate demanded. 

“I’ll give you two days. If we find Richard before midnight tomorrow, then he’s yours. If not you walk away and let me do my job,” Dean said.

Nate shook his head and Dean walked further into the room, folded his arms and waited for a response.

“What happened to you?” Nate asked. 

“What?” Dean replied, confused. 

“What happened to that kid who would do anything for his brother? Who looked at me with such fury? Willing to do anything it took to protect someone younger than himself?” Nate asked. 

“He went to war,” Dean replied, coldly. 

Nate sighed, and Dean watched as he struggled with the decision. Dean knew that without him and the knowledge he had, the information he had access to that Nate, and his deputies would never find Richard. Dean also knew that he needed Nate. Nate knew the families, the town, could get him close to the parents of the other missing kids, and that was also something they would need. 

“Dean I can’t lose another kid,” Nate admitted on a harshly choked whisper, “not again. I just can’t.”

“Then let’s find him,” Dean replied. He frowned at the look on Nate’s face, the one that Dean had caught several times before, a hint of something dark, hidden but in a flash, it was gone.

“Where do we start?” Nate asked, his voice quiet, and unsure. 

Dean heard the hopelessness, the fear in Nate’s voice and he wanted to ease both, to replace them with something else. He wanted to take back the distance between them and just pull him in, to hold him, to create something worth remembering. Something other than monsters and death, missing kids and the horror that Dean had introduced him to, but he couldn’t because the horror was all too real and they were running out of time. “The demon had to have had access to the kids in the weeks, maybe even months leading up to their disappearance,” Dean said instead. 

He went on to explain the ritual, the cattle mutilations and why they were burned. He also told him that the kids had to be anointed on the third and seventh day which meant it had to be someone with access to all the kids. Someone they trusted, who their parents trusted. Someone who wouldn’t cast suspicion. Dean also had an idea that whoever it was had been close, whispering in their ear, twisting, corrupting and for a long time. You just don’t take a child one day and convince it to murder the next no matter what their heritage. They were still half human, young and innocent and that meant it had time to work on them.

“I need you to talk with the parents. Ask them who had access to the kids. School teachers, friends, hell the damn mail man. Go through it with them again, and the then triple check,” Dean told Nate. 

Nate nodded, reached for the phone on his desk, pressed a button and Dean heard Nate ask for all the files on the missing kids to be brought to his office. Next he assigned several deputies to go through the statements again to check to see if there was anyone who had visited the homes of each family within that week. He wanted every activity the families or the children had attended checked and cross referenced and any that highlighted a match brought to his office. 

“Okay, I need anywhere in town this thing can hide a kid. Some place no one will hear if he makes a noise. Remote. Closed. Anything?” Dean asked. 

“There are a couple of hunter’s cabins and the old boat house, but they’ve been checked already,” Nate replied. 

“Then we check again,” Dean told him.

Dean loaded up the backpack Nate had given him with salt rounds, holy water, and made sure he had the book of exorcisms both he and his father, and Sam - before he left - all carried. He’d wanted Nate to hang back, but he’d refused, and Dean wondered if it was because he felt useless back at the station poring through statements, or because he didn’t trust Dean to keep to his word. They’d agreed to check both the cabins while John took the old boathouse. It was John’s suggestion they split up in case Richard was being moved around, it was a long shot, but right now it was all they had.

The first cabin had been a bust but there was something about it that seemed familiar to Dean, something he couldn’t quite explain or put his finger to. He’d searched every inch of the place and had not been able to discover why, or how he knew but he just knew there was something about it that felt known to him, even though he’d never stepped foot in the place before. Dean glanced at Nate and caught the look of frustration on Nate’s face. They were running out of daylight, and they still had the other cabin to search. 

“We’ll find him,” Dean promised, with more certainty than he actually felt.

They’d approached the second cabin from the south side, away from the setting sun to prevent casting a shadow, same as they’d done with the first cabin. Dean pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans, aimed it at the ground as they approached, Dean in the lead with Nate at his back. He stopped when they reached the cabin, pressed his hand against the side wall, and felt to see if it there was any indicator of an interior heat source. Then he listened with his ear pressed to the wood, senses tuned for slightest sound. After a long moment Dean looked at Nate and shook his head. He raised his free hand and signalled Nate to circle around the back and come in from the opposite side. Dean waited for Nate to give the answering signal and with their guns raised and their eyes on the open door they moved in. 

Dean tipped the muzzle of his 9mm at the open door and Nate nodded. In a rush of adrenalin and movement that suggested they’d been partners for years, Nate kicked the door wider. Dean entered with his gun raised, finger on the trigger and ready for any sign of movement as he felt Nate’s warm back press up against his own. Dean felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly, it felt good to have someone covering his back. He hadn’t had that since Sam had left and realised just how much he had missed it. 

The cabin was empty but this time the sense of familiarity Dean had picked up at the first cabin was stronger. There was a wooden-framed bed against one wall, its blankets pulled back, and the bottom sheet bunched up at the corner. Nate walked over to the bed, felt the sheet, expecting to find it cold and jumped back when his fingers came into contact with the warm material. 

“Dean?”

Nate turned, but Dean was already out the door. Nate rushed after Dean and almost barrelled into his broad back as he skidded to a halt not ten feet from the cabin. 

“Over there.” Dean pointed to his left and Nate turned just in time to catch a glimpse of something, a slight, fast moving figure with blonde hair disappear into the shelter of the trees. 

“A woman?” Nate asked. 

Dean didn’t answer. He was quiet, thoughtful and then it hit him. The smell? The same smell he’d noticed at both cabins, and he realised why it was so familiar. He’d come into contact with it before. He remembered the scent of it, thick, and cloying, when he’d passed her to step into the Principal’s office his first day in town. She’d leaned in toward him, her breasts brushing against his arm, and he’d had to hold his breath it was so strong. It made sense, why’d she’d laughed when she’d caught him staring? He didn’t imagine it. She wasn’t offended at all. She was laughing at him, at the way he’d fallen for her looks, her body, the way she’d walked, showing off her assets.

Everything about her was powerful. Her beauty. Her scent. All used with maximum effect. To charm. To tempt. 

“The school secretary,” Dean hissed. 

“I thought you said it was a male demon?” Nate accused. 

“Really, you want to do this now?” Dean knew it wasn’t that simple. That there was something they were missing, but he didn’t have time. They didn’t have time. He took off into the woods, his feet pounding against the ground, and kicking up small pebble-like stones in his wake. He heard Nate, slightly to his left, as he ran to catch up.

“Which way?” Nate asked. 

Dean skidded to a stop. He bent forward, placed his hands on his knees and took in a deep, ragged breath. He could hear Nate breathing just as hard beside him. They’d reached a small clearing without sight nor sound of anyone else. The sun had set, and they’d lost what little daylight they had left. Dean pulled the backpack from his shoulders, unzipped it, and took out a flashlight. He tested it while he waited for Nate to do the same. 

“We spilt up,” Dean replied. He aimed the flashlight around him in a small circle, then branched out into each direction in turn and scanned in front of him as far as the beam would go. He took careful note of any broken, trampled or disturbed foliage as he searched. Finally, he pointed to his right. “You take that direction, make sure you stay within sight of my flashlight. If you see or hear anything, give three short bursts with your flashlight, then wait.” 

Nate nodded.

“I’m serious. You wait. Don’t take her on alone,” Dean warned. 

Nate nodded once more and then took off in the direction Dean had indicated. Dean waited. He watched until Nate had stepped beyond the clearing and into the trees and then followed, parallel to the direction Nate had taken. He kept his flashlight pointed at the ground in front of him, swept it up in an arc ahead of him every twenty paces or so, but refrained from looking left or right, or up into the trees. He knew someone… something was there. 

It was quiet. Too quiet. It had been since the instant they’d broken through the trees and into the woodland.

Dean had expected a flurry of activity from the animals and wildlife as they’d crashed in between the trees but there had been nothing. No burst of movement from the woodland squirrel, no sudden flight of the Band-tailed pigeons, even the tree frogs were silent. Which told Dean that something, a predator was among the trees, and darkening shadows. Watching, stalking, herding its prey and judging by the barely perceptible movement Dean had detected above; Dean and Nate were the targets. 

Dean warred against the decision to separate from Nate. He was a still civilian, despite his combat training, and experience in taking another person down. Dean knew that Nate was no match for the insidious evil that was tracking them now. He kept the beam of Nate’s flashlight in his peripheral vision and fought against the need to warn him. He knew Nate wouldn’t be able to keep a normal pace. He’d tense up. Occasionally check over his shoulder. Maybe even train his flashlight toward the occasional rustle of leaves. Dean remained quiet and continued forward. He knew as long as whatever was tracking them thought it had the element of surprise on its side, then it would watch. It would wait. 

Dean had every intention of doing the same. 

Until he saw the beam of Nate’s flashlight arc upward, then come down, fast, spin around once, and then still its movement. Dean wrenched the backpack from his shoulder, reached for his shotgun, then cursed the seconds it took to secure the backpack again, but he couldn’t risk losing its contents. He shrugged his arms through the handles, slung it over his shoulder and took off through the woods. He heard a crash above him as a deluge of leaves rained down onto the woodland floor. Something was moving, fast through the trees, matching his pace. He kept his sights on the flashlight’s beam, and ignored the burn in his lungs as he tried to get to Nate. He ducked beneath a low branch, heard fabric tear as his jacket snagged on another. He yanked his arm free of the branch, cursed loudly when a searing pain shot through his bicep, and felt the warm wet trail of blood run down his arm, but he didn’t slow his pace.

Dean skidded to a stop. The searing pain down his arm was settling into a dull throb but it still hindered his movement and he fumbled his grip on the stock of his gun. He made a fist with his hand. Clenched and unclenched his fingers to ward off the pins and needles, curled his finger around the trigger and scanned the area. 

She had Nate pinned. His back to a tree and her red, painted mouth on his. Dean could see her hand around his throat, her long, elongated nails puncturing his skin. For a second, Dean just stared. He couldn’t take a chance at firing off a round. She was too close to Nate and if the bullet exited her body… It wouldn’t kill him but it’d hurt like a bitch, and would hinder any chance of a successful escape if they needed to move fast. 

He heard laughter above him, cold, and malicious. He heard the soft, almost wounded cry of a child. The she moved, just an inch. 

Dean looked down. Followed the sound. And noticed for the first time the huddled form at her feet. She had her fingers twisted into his hair, fisted tight around the Auburn strands. He tried to shuffle toward the protection of the tree but each time he gained an inch, she yanked him back, hard. Her fingers twisting tighter around the strands of his hair, until his neck curved at an unnatural angle and all the while never once taking her mouth from Nate’s. 

Dean took in every single detail, he couldn’t get to Nate, or Richard and he couldn’t fire off a round but he couldn’t do nothing. He raised his gun. Waited. He noticed Nate move his head slightly. Saw him wince as her talon-like nails dug deeper into his skin. But it was enough to catch the pleading look in Nate’s eyes. Dean nodded. Waited for Richard to move. Waited for her to yank him back, knowing her shoulder would dip away from Nate, just a fraction. 

“Come on, kid. Move,” Dean muttered beneath his breath. He was conscious of the thing above him. Knew that any moment it could strike. Conscious of the way Nate’s legs were beginning to buckle. The pain and increasing numbness in his own arm.

“Move!” Dean hissed. 

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. 

Dean fired. 

She reared back as the salt cartridge entered her shoulder. Wailed. Turned on Dean. Eyes blazing. Furious. 

She staggered away from Nate and focused solely on Dean. She smiled, malevolent. Her smeared lipstick, making her look even more sinister. Dean fired off another round. This time hitting her in the chest and watched the fury morph into disbelief as she clutched at the wound, fingers digging desperately into flesh to get at the salt that halted her movement and intent.

Dean threw down the empty shotgun, pulled his Colt from his jeans and hesitated when he heard a thud as something hit the ground, hard, directly behind him. He whirled around, his gun raised at shoulder level and sucked in his breath. 

Michael Harris was crouched not ten feet from where Dean was standing. The blue of his eyes ice cold, and a sinister grin marring his once beautiful face. Dean looked at him, and tried to see something, anything resembling the seven-year-old boy Nate wanted so much to protect, but there was nothing left of the child he’d been. What stared back was all demon. Michael made a sound which was more animal than human and Dean took a step back. He twisted back around as another thud sounded, and saw Anthony Miller crouched to his other side. Both their attention bearing down on Dean. Beautiful and deadly. 

The woman, was nowhere to be seen.

Dean fired a warning shot as Michael, then Anthony began to circle around him, inching closer. He stepped to the side. Tried to manoeuvre himself away from their centre. He made a sharp twist to his right when he saw a shimmer of movement. Spun to his left, when he caught sight of the same. But there was nothing. He saw the silent communication pass between them and knew they were messing with his perception. Dean took a deep breath. Shook his head as it seemed another kid, with the same blue eyes appeared to Michael’s left. Then another. One more still to Anthony’s right and saw the look of malicious glee pass over their faces at his confusion.

Dean fired a shot at the one closest to him. The bullet passed right through, and embedded in a tree. The illusion vanishing as fast as it appeared. Dean squinted, tried to remember where Michael and Anthony where in relation to where he was standing and fired another round. 

Again, the illusion vanished and Dean tried to remember how many shots he’d fired and realised they were forcing his hand. Tricking him into using up his ammunition. He lowered his gun, focused on what was really in front of him. He noticed the way the faint breeze teased at Michael’s hair, and lifted the occasional strand. How the moonlight through the trees reflected off Anthony’s small, crouched body and gave away the roundness of his limbs. Unlike the still, flat appearance of what he now knew were the illusions they were causing him to see. Dean smiled. He raised his gun and aimed it at Michael’s face as Michael reared up, bared his teeth, a low, menacing growl erupting from his throat, as he lunged forward. 

“Nate, run!” Dean shouted. 

Dean bolted toward the tree where Richard was crouched. He tossed his gun to Nate. Scooped Richard up with his good arm and ran back the way they had come as Michael or Anthony or both let out a snarl and made up into the trees. Zigzagged in and out, one to the left of them and the other to the right. Flanking them. Their high-pitched howls echoing in the darkness, as they moved stealthily through the trees either side of Dean and Nate, keeping pace as Dean tried to run faster. 

What little advantage their height and longer legs gave them was hindered by the weight Dean was carrying. He pushed himself faster, forced his legs to keep moving and ignored the pain down his arm. The cabin wasn’t far. They’d never outrun them. Not with Richard but if they could just reach the cabin… 

Michael made a dash from the cover of trees, lunged forward, toward Dean, the thin shafts of moonlight that penetrated the gloom making his eyes appear wild. His teeth bared as he picked up speed and made a grab for Dean’s leg, hoping to bring Dean down. Dean tried to sidestep him, almost stumbled and cursed beneath his breath as his ankle twisted beneath him. He clung tight to Richard, ignored the pain and pushed himself faster, tried again to sidestep as Michael made a dash straight for him and Dean screamed at Nate to shoot. 

Nate raised his arm, hesitated. 

“Shoot!” Dean shouted. 

There was a crack of gunfire and a loud wail as the small childlike body stumbled and went down. 

Richard buried his face in Dean’s neck, and Dean felt him shiver. Felt dampness soak into the collar of his shirt as small arms tightened around Dean’s neck and clung to the protection Dean offered. If Dean had any doubt about their ability to save Michael or Anthony from the evil that had returned to claim them, it was quashed by an inhuman sound as Michael rolled around on the ground. A cry, quiet at first, and pain-filled that quickly rose in volume and morphed into a high-pitched scream of fury. A wailing shriek that chased them down as Dean clutched Richard tight to him and half ran, half stumbled the last few feet and into the dubious shelter of the cabin.

Dean shoved Richard into Nate’s arms and threw his weight into the flimsy panels of the closed door and tried to keep it barred while Nate tried and failed to pry himself free of Richard’s hold. Dean tried to ground his feet but his boots kept sliding and making tracks in the layers of dust on floor. His thighs tensed and bunched under the strain as he fought the furious violence that shook the door on its rusty, protesting hinges. Dean’s head bounced sickeningly off the wood as Michael and Anthony took turns ramming the door, and Dean gritted his teeth as the ominous sound of creaking, groaning wood made his heart race with adrenaline soaked fear. He tried to ease the backpack from his shoulder without shifting his weight from the door but even the slightest movement caused the door to shake violently. Finally, he worked the backpack loose, and kicked it across the floor toward Nate.

“The salt. Grab the salt,” Dean panted and almost lost his footing as a loud thud hit the door and almost sent him flying forward. He shifted his weight, braced his feet wide and pushed back with his shoulders as the wood splintered, cracked and Dean heard the scrabble of nails attempting to pry the crack wider. He looked pleadingly at Nate, as Nate rooted around in the backpack, pulled the can of salt and twisted the lid from its neck and rushed forward, dragging a terrified Richard in his wake. 

He made a line at Dean’s feet as Dean forced his weight against the door, just as a small hand breached the wood and grabbed at Dean’s coat. 

“The bed,” Dean gasped. 

Dean watched as Nate tried to pull away from Richard but the boy clung, tried to bury his face in Nate’s thigh. Nate pulled away with force, and finally broke free of Richard’s hold. He spent a moment trying to reassure him when another, high pitched wail sounded from outside. Richard flinched. He shuffled back into the corner and squatted down, pulled his knees up to his chest and pressed his hands tight over his ears to block out the furious shrieks that echoed through the darkness and penetrated the gloom of the cabin. 

“Hurry!” Dean shouted as one brilliant blue eye appeared between the crack in the wood and stared straight at Nate. 

Nate shuddered, looked away and forced his attention on the bed, struggled with its weight as he dragged it across the floor, it was heavy, solid and Dean watched the sweat break out on his forehead. His shoulders bunched and flexed as he heaved its weight toward Dean. Dean grabbed for the backboard as Nate pushed it the last few inches, and together they shoved it against the door. The only other access, the small window was protected by wooden shutters but Dean wasn’t taking any chances. His phone began to ring, vibrating, incessantly in his pocket, but he ignored it as he poured a line of salt against the sill and then shoved his shoulder into the tall, pine cupboard and pushed it in front of the window. He’d shut out what little light penetrated the gloom and thrust the cabin into total darkness, but it bought them some time. How much exactly, Dean didn’t have a damn clue.

He heard Richard whimper as the cabin went dark, then Nate fumbling around looking for a source of light. Dean reached into his pocket, withdrew his flip top lighter and used its flame as they searched the cabin and found an old oil lamp. The noise outside the door quietened just as a loud thump sounded on the roof - the scratch of nails - as Michael and Anthony scurried back and forth, searching for a way in, making the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. There was no way to salt the roof from the inside and Dean gritted his teeth and hoped the roof would hold.

Dean lit the lamp and reached into his pocket for his phone as Nate pulled Richard into his lap and cradled his head against his chest. Dean felt the slight burn of satisfaction dampen down the fear at the sight of Nate comforting the kid. He looked a natural, like he was at home with a child in his arms and Dean wondered for the first time if Nate had a family, children of his own. He shook his head to regain his focus and flipped open his phone, there were several missed calls, mostly from John and one from Bobby. He took a moment to catch his breath and then dialled Bobby’s number. 

“Dean, thank God,” Bobby answered. 

“Tell me you’ve got something?” Dean asked. 

“I think it’s the kids doing the killing,” Bobby told Dean. 

“Way ahead of you,” Dean replied. 

“They’re Lilin,”

“What?” Dean asked. 

“Roughly translated, Harlots of Hell,” Bobby said. 

“How do we put them down?” Dean asked. He saw Nate wince and wrap his arms protectively around Richard. 

“You can’t,” Bobby told him.

“Then what?” 

“They’re drawing their power from the demon. You need to sever the link,” Bobby said. 

Dean shifted the phone to his other ear as the noise outside increased in volume. Loud, high-pitched shrieks of frustration as Michael and Anthony pounded against the roof above his head. And then suddenly it went quiet, just the occasional shuffle and the odd scratch against the wood. 

“Dean are you there?” Bobby asked. 

“Yeah,” Dean replied. 

“What the hell was that?” Bobby asked. 

“Bobby just tell me what you’ve got?” Dean asked. 

“He’s not just any demon. That symbol you sent me, the one that was found on the bodies?” Bobby said.

“You found it?” Dean asked. 

“It belongs to Asmodeus. The father of all Incubi. If you’re lucky, he’ll be alone. If not he’ll have Lilith along for the ride,” Bobby told Dean. 

“We’ve already had the misfortune,” Dean replied. 

“How banged up are you?” Bobby asked.

“I’ll live. How do I find him Bobby?” 

“Well there’s the rub. He’s the Demon of Lust. He’s said to run the brothels of Hell, nasty as they come,” Bobby said. 

“Shouldn’t be too hard?” Dean said. 

“You’d think. But in human form, he’ll blend. He’s handsome, well-mannered, and he’ll be pleasant, engaging. Helpful even. You’ll never know it’s him, unless he wants you to know,” Bobby told Dean. 

“Great, just great,” Dean replied. 

“The lore on this thing goes way back. Best I can tell, the only thing they all agree on is that he supposedly has the foot of a rooster,” Bobby said. 

“Really not helping,” Dean replied. But even as he dismissed Bobby’s description, something sparked in his brain, the beginning of a thought, a hazy image…

There was a long pause, and Dean heard the shuffle of paper on the other end of the phone. Nate’s voice, quiet and comforting as he reassured Richard and silence from outside, which he hoped wasn’t just the calm before the storm. 

“The heart and the liver,” Bobby told Dean.

“What about them?” 

“It’s a long shot but I think I know why all the bodies are missing them.”

“I’m listening,” Dean said. 

“There’s an old legend,” Bobby began.

Dean dragged his booted foot across the floor, idling tracing a devil’s trap into the dust beneath his feet as he waited. 

“Asmodeus is the demon of insatiable lust, but he’s also big on wrath and revenge. He’s said to have gone a few rounds with King Solomon.”

“Bobby, get to the heart and liver,” Dean sighed. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Bobby’s help, but he didn’t know for how long the hell spawn outside were going to remain quiet. Why they were quiet or if they were falling back to plan their next assault? He didn’t want to admit as much in earshot of Richard, but he had an idea they were in for a long night of mayhem and malice.

“You should take a page out of your brother’s book. That boy knows how to appreciate a good story,” Bobby told Dean. 

“You know what Bobby? It’s your lucky night and seeing as I won’t be going anywhere for a while...” Dean smiled and could almost hear Bobby getting comfortable. Ready to chew Dean’s ear about Solomon. Not that Dean had the faintest idea who Solomon was, but he’d bet a six pack, he’d be an expert in the subject by the time Bobby had finished. 

Dean listened as Bobby told him about Asmodeus’ battle with Solomon. How Solomon bound Asmodeus with a chain engraved with the sacred name of God in an attempt to bend him to his will. At which point Dean sucked in a deep breath and gave every impression that he was listening. He nodded even though Bobby couldn’t see and made encouraging noises while he watched Nate comfort Richard. 

Richard had stopped crying but his tiny shoulders still trembled and every few seconds his breath stuttered but it didn’t seem to disconcert Nate at all. He talked quietly, words too hushed for Dean to hear as he stroked the damp tendrils of hair from Richard’s face and held him close. Kind of like he used to do with Sam, Dean realised and wondered again if Nate had a family. He doubted it, considering how they’d spent the night together. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility but Dean was rapidly revising his opinion on a lot of things. Nate being one of them. 

He still wasn’t sure why Nate had done what he’d done the night they’d met. Why he’d seemed so eager for Dean’s advances or what had driven him to step into that alley? Maybe he was as desperate as Dean had been, who knew? But the more Dean saw of Nate, the way he responded to what was happening in his town. His grief and concern for the missing kids. His willingness to believe and trust Dean when really, he had no cause to and the way he responded to Richard. He just wasn’t the guy Dean had spent all those years believing him to be. 

He was kind, dependable and…

“Dean?” Bobby shouted.

“I’m here.” Dean straightened up. Forced his attention away from Nate and back to the conversation. 

“Dammit, boy. Have you listened to a word I’ve said?” Bobby demanded.

“Yeah, something about a ring and a fish. Just run that last part by me again,” Dean asked. He smiled as Bobby cursed down the phone and made a mental note to send him a bottle of the good stuff. Preferably aged longer than three days. 

“Just find the heart and liver. That’s your key to destroying this thing,” Bobby told Dean.

It was still quiet outside when Dean ended the call, and he wondered if Michael and Anthony had given up, though he knew it was more likely that’s what they wanted Dean to think. He thanked Bobby, and was about to tell Nate what he’d learned when he looked across the room and saw Nate put his finger to his lips. Dean looked down, saw Richard asleep in Nate’s arms, his head against Nate’s chest and his arms wrapped tight around Nate’s neck. Dean shrugged out of his jacket as Nate eased himself to his feet and crossed over to the bed, and lowered Richard onto the mattress. Dean covered him with his jacket and was about to turn away when Richard stirred. 

“Where’s Grandpa? She promised if I was quiet that Grandpa would come and get me,” Richard told Nate.

“You just get some sleep and when you wake up, we’ll take you to your Grandpa,” Nate promised. 

Dean took hold of Nate’s arm and nodded his head toward the other side of the cabin, away from the bed, and Richard. 

“I need to ask you something,” Dean whispered.

Dean filled Nate in on everything Bobby had told him and asked Nate several questions of his own. The more Nate told him the more convinced Dean was that he was right, and of what they needed to do. 

“You’re sure?” Nate asked. There was a quiet resignation in his voice. He wasn’t going to argue. Dean could hear it in his voice, but he didn’t like it either. 

Dean nodded. He didn’t like it any more than Nate did, but he’d seen what had become of Michael and Anthony, and he wasn’t about to let the same thing happen to Richard. He’d promised Nate that they’d find him, and they had. Now it was his job to make sure that he remained safe. He’d turn seven tomorrow, but without the completed ritual, the demon couldn’t claim him. The only way to ensure he remained safe, and human was if the demon was dead. 

Dean felt Nate slump down beside him. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. They still had the rest of the night to get through but at least for now it was quiet. He had a plan but Nate wasn’t going to like it, and even while Dean balked at the idea it was the only way he could think to get them out of the situation they were in, alive and in one piece. 

“Who’s Sam?” Nate asked quietly, breaking the fragile silence that had descended. 

Dean took a deep breath, and frowned. 

“You talk in your sleep,” Nate replied by way of explanation. 

“Who’s in the photograph that you keep hidden in your desk?” Dean asked.

The silence that descended was awkward and Dean almost wished the noise outside would start up again, just to break the tension. He waited, but Nate remained silent. It was the first time Dean had asked, had revealed that he knew something about Nate just didn’t sit right but again, he wasn’t about to push. He got it, there was something Nate didn’t want to talk about, just as Dean didn’t want to talk about Sam. Not right now anyway. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll take first watch,” Dean suggested instead and hoped that Nate got that he understood, that he wasn’t about to pry. 

Dean felt Nate shift closer. He winced as Nate pressed up against his injured arm, but he wasn’t about to move. He smelt the faintest trace of Sandalwood that he’d come to associate with warmth, and comfort and relaxed into the solid feel of Nate beside him. He wanted to lift his arm, ease it around Nate as he felt him lower his head and rest it against Dean’s shoulder, but he knew it would make it harder to move away without waking Nate. Instead, he rested his cheek against the soft feel of Nate’s hair and breathed in his clean, fresh scent. He watched as Richard turned over in his sleep, burrowed deeper into the warmth of Dean’s jacket and waited for Nate’s breathing to even out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. 

Dean waited until he was sure Nate wouldn’t wake up, and then eased away from his side. Nate muttered a complaint, tried to press in closer and Dean stilled, waited, and gave him a moment to settle. He reached over to the pile of logs in the corner, pulled the cover that was thrown over them, bundled it up and used it to cushion Nate’s head as he moved away. As soon as he was sure he wasn’t going to disturb Richard or Nate further he reached into his pocket for his phone, flipped it open and dialled John’s number. 

It took him several, long minutes to calm his father down. John had been frantic, sure the demon had got to Dean and furious with Dean for not returning his calls. Dean tried to keep his voice low, and calm while he told John what had happened. The most important being that they had Richard, and he was safe. Which just set John off again when he learned that the demon, or its hell spawn had them trapped. Dean took a deep breath, gave John directions to the cabin, and told him how bullets slowed them down but didn’t stop them. Told him about Lilith, and to watch out in case she was nearby. Dean doubted it. He felt sure she’d be holed up somewhere, tending to her wounds, but he wasn’t going to risk his father’s safety on a hunch. 

He took another deep breath then asked the question he’d tried to avoid but knew he’d have to ask eventually. If the home-made flame thrower was still in the back of John’s truck? 

“You think that will do the trick?” John asked. 

“When all else fails, light ‘em up,” Dean answered. 

John was quiet, Dean was too. The harsh reality of Dean’s words echoing in the painful silence between them.

“Find out what you can first,” Dean asked. 

“If they know, I’ll get to it,” John assured Dean.

“Dad?” 

“Yes son?”

“Try to lure them away from the cabin before... I don’t want the kid scared any more than he has been already,” Dean said. He left out the part about not wanting Nate alerted to the noise. To what John had done. Or what Dean had asked him to do.

Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket. Checked on Richard, stroked a strand of hair from his face and tucked his jacket in around his shoulders and clung to the knowledge that Richard, and all the other children like him would be safe. That nothing was going to harm them, now or in the future. 

He walked over to Nate, eased himself down beside him and waited. The skitter of nails on the cabin roof a couple of hours later told Dean that Michael and Anthony were on the move, that something had caught their attention. He closed his eyes and nestled closer into the warmth Nate offered and tried to focus on Richard, on the life they’d saved and not what was going on, outside in the woods. 

…

Dean shook Nate awake as soon as he heard the engine of John’s truck rumble to a stop not far from the cabin. 

“What time is it?” Nate mumbled. 

“Time to make a move,” Dean replied. 

“I thought you were going to wake me?” Nate asked. 

“Hey buddy, wake up.” Dean shook Richard’s shoulder, gently so as not to startle him. He smiled when Richard sat up, scrubbed his hands over his eyes and yawned loudly. He’d half expected him to bolt upright, to scream and was grateful that at least he seemed less terrified than when he’d fallen asleep. 

“Give me a hand with the bed?” 

“You’re sure it’s safe?” Nate asked. 

Dean nodded and took one end of the bed, and together they dragged it away from the door just as John knocked and called out to Dean. 

Dean opened the door, gave John a look that pleaded for silence, and John simply nodded and stepped inside. He looked tired, older than his years and Dean tried to ignore the acrid smell of smoke that clung to his clothes. 

“Did you find them?” Dean asked. 

“In the truck,” John answered.

“Call Sergeant Anderson. Tell him to meet us at the clearing on the south side and make sure he knows to tell no one that we have Richard,” Dean told Nate. 

Nate nodded.

“Salt the door then block it. Don’t open it to anyone but me?” Dean said. 

“Where are you going?” Nate asked

“To finish this,” Dean answered.

John waited until Dean had stepped out of the cabin, grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side. “What are you going to tell him?” John asked. 

“Nothing I don’t have to,” Dean replied. He stepped further into the clearing, and squinted against the glare of the morning sun. Even with the light from the oil lamp burning all night it took a few moments to adjust to the brightness. He stopped as he drew level with John’s truck, pulled himself up into the passenger seat and waited for John to start the engine. 

“What?” Dean asked. They’d been sitting in the truck for several minutes while John drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and Dean had a sickening feeling he knew why. 

“That kid back there?” John began.

“What about him?” Dean asked. 

“You sure he’s safe. I saw the others. Hell I…” John stopped. 

“He’s safe,” Dean told his father. 

“As long as you’re not letting your emotions come before what needs to be done?” John said. 

“Dad, I do everything you ask, without question. Now I’m asking, just give me this one?” Dean said. 

John stared ahead, fingers tapping out a regular rhythm against the steering wheel. Finally, he nodded, started the engine and reversed the truck out of the clearing. 

Dean was glad they’d had to take a detour on route to meet Sergeant Anderson. The smell was intolerable and even now, after they’d gotten rid of the cause it was only marginally better. They’d parked the truck away from the clearing, its windows opened to give it an airing and had every intention of walking back to the cabin. 

Sergeant Anderson was already at the clearing when Dean and John stepped out from the cover of the trees. He was pacing anxiously, and limped over the instant he recognised them both. 

“Detective, Washington. Thank God. I got here as fast as I could. Where is he? Is he hurt?” Sergeant Anderson asked. 

“He’s fine. Shaken up but otherwise unhurt,” Dean assured him.

“I still don’t understand why I couldn’t tell his mother. She’s frantic,” Sergeant Anderson told Dean. 

“I know but whoever took him is still out there. We need your help and right now we can’t trust anyone,” Dean said. 

“What do you want me to do? “Sergeant Anderson asked. 

“We’ll fill you in on the way,” John told him. 

The walk back to the cabin took longer than expected partly due to Sergeant Anderson’s limp, which Dean learned wasn’t so much a permanent disability but more a temporary embarrassment caused by Sergeant Anderson’s attempts to not look old in front of his T-Ball team. The midday heat wasn’t helping either and Dean was all too conscious of the fact that Nate and Richard were cooped up in the cabin, with the door closed and the window blocked. He wanted this over with, so he could reunite Richard with his family, and hopefully then, he thought he might just be able live with himself. He’d have something to hold on to, something that would dampen the memory of what he and John had done. Dean didn’t think there would ever be a case that he hated working more than witches but as of now. Demonic kids were right there, at the top of his list.

“Are you sure he’s not hurt?” Sergeant Anderson asked for the third time. 

“He’s fine,” Dean reassured him again.

“So, how long have you coached T Ball?” John asked. 

“This past year. Since Richard joined the team,” Sergeant Anderson replied. 

“It must have been tough, the kids disappearing, seeing as how you were so close to them. Being their coach as well as Richard’s grandfather,” John continued. 

“It was hardest on Richard. They were his friends,” Sergeant Anderson said.

“Were?” John asked.

“I didn’t mean… I’ve been in uniform long enough to know what it means when someone is missing for such a length of time. Especially a kid,” Sergeant Anderson explained. 

“Must have been rough, not being able to join in the search,” John continued.

“It was, but the leg… damn an old man’s pride eh?” Sergeant Anderson laughed. 

“How’s it holding up?” Dean asked.

“It’ll be fine,” Sergeant Anderson assured them both.

“Not much farther,” John said. 

Dean caught Sergeant Anderson’s arm as he stumbled, took the brunt of his weight as Sergeant Anderson steadied himself and helped him the last few remaining feet to the cabin. He stepped back as John pushed the door open to allow Sergeant Anderson to be first to enter, and held his breath as he hesitated. Dean caught the look John cast in his direction and nodded. He stepped forward, smiled as Sergeant Anderson gave him a questioning glance, and took position at the sergeant’s left as John moved in on his right, boxing him in. 

“What the?” Sergeant Anderson began.

“Just thought you might need a hand,” Dean answered. 

“Wouldn’t want you changing your mind, now would we?” John added.

John shoved Sergeant Anderson, hard and stepped into the dimly lit cabin, followed by Dean, who slammed the door shut behind him. Dean drew the heavy bolt across the wood, secured it and then leant back against the door. His arms folded, his smile and all attempts at friendly pretence gone.

“Where’s my Grandson,” Sergeant Anderson demanded. 

“Where we told you he was,” John told him.

“At the cabin. With the Sheriff,” Dean said. 

“Just not this cabin.” John smiled. 

Dean threw his flip top lighter toward his father, which John caught with one hand, he flipped it open and used it to light the first oil lamp. John stepped back as it lit up one corner of the cabin and then lit the second one, throwing the rest of the room into stark relief. He tossed the lighter back to Dean and smiled at Sergeant Anderson who stood in the centre of the cabin with a look of confusion on his face. 

“You can drop the act now. We know who you are. We know what you are!” John spat.

“Nice touch, that story about the limp. I was almost convinced, almost. Maybe if I hadn’t been told a story about a demon with the foot of a rooster you’d have convinced me.” Dean smiled as Sergeant Anderson spun around to face Dean.

“Making us think the older kids were dead. Led us a merry dance looking for burial sites that didn’t exist,” John added.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sergeant Anderson replied. 

“Really, then walk out this cabin,” Dean told him. 

Sergeant Anderson took a step forward and another and then stopped. He glanced at Dean, then to John who smiled, tilted his head upward to reveal a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling. 

“Still think you can just leave?” John asked. 

Dean watched as Sergeant Anderson smiled, but it wasn’t the friendly, helpful smile he’d become accustomed to. It was hard, hostile, wreathed in an expression of pure hatred. 

“You think you can beat me?” The demon spat back.

“Oh, I think we already have,” Dean told him. “All that’s left is to end your sorry ass.”

The demon threw back its head and laughed, evil and perverse and Dean saw past the face of Sergeant Anderson to the depravity beneath. He swallowed as the demon turned to face him, its lips pulled back and spittle forming at its mouth. 

“You can try little boy,” The demon said. 

John stepped forward, raised his arm and brought it down hard, the back of his hand catching the demon across the mouth. It raged, heaved in a breath, the spittle turning bright red as it spat in John’s face.

“You think I came here alone?” the demon asked.

“I know you didn’t. I’ve already met your whore. She’s next on our list but there’s no hurry. She’s probably still busy picking the rock salt from her veins.” Dean smiled. He watched the demon, saw a brief flash of fear and felt a twinge of satisfaction stir in the pit of his stomach. 

“Send me back to hell. I’ll just crawl back out, and you’ll be the first person I call on. After Richard of course.” The demon grinned. Its teeth red from the blood that now flowed freely from its mouth. 

“We’re not sending you to hell,” John said. 

Dean watched the demon scan the room, and take everything in. The opening for the fireplace was boarded with thick, heavy pieces of wood, nailed together. Not a single crevice visible. The windows too, both covered with boards that were nailed tightly together. It had taken them all morning to prepare the cabin, ensuring that once the demon was exorcised there was no escape. They’d checked and double checked. It was so secure that not even a whisper of a breeze could get in or out. The smell from the contents of the fetid, burlap sack they’d brought in from John’s truck was proof of that. 

Dean had tried to ignore it as they’d entered but the longer they spent in the closed off space, the more rancid it became.

“You’re going wherever it is you filthy pieces of crap go when you die,” Dean said. He stepped back as the demon flung itself across the room, its momentum suddenly halted by the Devil’s Trap. Dean smiled and nodded to John.

“You think you can kill me?” The demon screamed. Its face contorted into a mask of pure hatred. “I’ll peel the flesh from your bones myself!” It raged. 

“Speaking of flesh.” Dean stepped away from the demon, walked over to the corner of the room and held his breath as he retrieved the burlap sack. The wood beneath where it had rested now stained a deep, dark red. He held it at arm’s length as he made his way back to the centre of the room, and tipped its bloody, decomposing contents at the demon’s feet. 

“Three hearts. Three livers. Three reasons to wipe you from existence. Permanently!” Dean spat. “Oh, and the three means with which to do it.” 

John walked across the room to the small table they’d pushed against the far wall that morning and picked up his journal and two amulets, both inscribed with the three Biblical Magi, and both secured on thick black cord. He tossed one to Dean who looped it over his head, the heavy medallion coming to rest snug against the amulet he’d worn since childhood. 

Just in case you try and get inventive,” John told the demon. He opened his journal to the page marked with the imprecatory exorcism and began reading the words as the demon let out a bark of laughter.

“Fool, you’re no priest,” the demon mocked.

Dean glanced across at John, and John shook his head and continued. He’d warned Dean that most imprecatory exorcisms were performed by priests, and could be dangerous when used by someone inexperienced but he wasn’t taking any chances. He’d read, and heard that the most powerful demons could withstand most run of the mill exorcisms and if they wanted to be sure then it was a risk they’d have to take. 

After all, if Bobby was right, he was no ordinary demon, but father to an entire breed of hell spawn.

The walls of the cabin began to vibrate, and then shake violently as John’s voice became louder, and Dean prayed they’d hold. If they didn’t, then everything was lost. 

Including Richard.

Dean wasn’t as well versed in Latin as Sam but he knew enough to know the words were powerful, the invocations intended to force surrender and so did the demon.

It screamed its fury, threatened both Dean and John but John carried on unconcerned. A small part of Dean wanted to acknowledge the pride he had for his father. For his strength, courage and sheer tenacity but it was swallowed by the fear that was rising. The human body could only take so much and Dean was becoming more and more aware that the body that housed the demon was only human. 

Blood poured from Sergeant Anderson’s nose, mixed with the spittle that frothed from his mouth and ran down his chin, his shirt wet and stained with blood and spit. His eyes bulged, the area of white rapidly disappearing as blood cell after blood cell burst and bled into the socket. 

“Dad?” Dean warned. He watched in horror as the artery in Sergeant Anderson’s temple thickened, bulged from his forehead and began to pulsate violently. 

“Dad?” Dean shouted. His voice drowned out by the agonising scream of the demon as it levitated and was flung violently around the cabin by the force of John’s words. Dean cringed as the body of Sergeant Anderson hit an invisible wall, the seal of the Devil’s Trap preventing it from leaving the confines of the circle instead, it smashed against the protective barrier with increasing force. 

Dean stepped forward, raised his arm past the barrier of the devil’s trap to grab at Sergeant Anderson. Not sure what he intended other than to try and hold him down somehow, stop the physical punishment his body was suffering. 

“Dean no!” John warned. 

The demon turned its head, its eyes not black as Dean had expected but a brilliant blue, no pupil, no iris, just blue. 

Its mouth opened. Its top lip curled upward in a grotesque attempt at a grin.

Dean stepped back. He nodded to John to continue and the demon screamed as it was flung once more across the room and then it stopped. It hung, its back arched and limbs limp as John repeated the last line of the prayer three times.

Both waited. Both held their breath.

The silence was shattered by an agonising scream as Sergeant Anderson’s body convulsed and the demon erupted from his mouth in a cloud of smoke. It spiralled around the cabin, formed a column and smashed into the ceiling. 

Dean made a dash for Sergeant Anderson as he crashed to the floor, one leg bent under his body, his head facing away from Dean. 

“Dean now!” John shouted. 

The noise was deafening. The demon smoke spiralled back down and then rose up again with increased momentum, its impact causing a crack to appear in the ceiling.

“Dean!” 

Dean jumped back, away from Sergeant Anderson’s body. He reached for the accelerant and poured it over the shrivelled organs and struck a flame with his lighter. He glanced up, saw the demon preparing for another assault and tossed his lighter onto the remains and raised his arm to cover his mouth and nose as they ignited. 

The flame began at the tail end of the smoke and then quickly spread until the cabin was filled with a swirling column of fire. Dean and John both jumped back, pressed themselves against the far wall and shielded their faces from the heat. In seconds it was over. All that remained was ash as it drifted down, floated on the air and covered the cabin floor in a layer of blue dust. 

Dean rushed over to Sergeant Anderson, felt for a pulse, and nodded to John. His leg was broken, that was obvious from the way it was twisted beneath him. Dean was sure there were more broken bones but he was breathing which was more than he’d dared hope. 

“We need to gather the remains, and then we can get him some help,” John told Dean. He retrieved the Curse Box from beneath the small table and unlocked it. John was sure it was over but there was sure and then there was making damn sure.

Dean had wanted to stay with Sergeant Anderson but John had warned against it. It was one thing to pose as law enforcement officials to obtain information and it was another entirely to be stick around for the many questions such a high risk situation would pose. And Nate had already gone above and beyond in providing them cover and false credentials. It took Dean fifteen minutes to reach John’s truck, on foot and at speed while John had stayed behind and did the best he could to ensure Sergeant Anderson remained comfortable. Another ten minutes, which felt like a life time to reach the second cabin and assure Nate that it was over. 

Neither spoke on the drive back, Nate didn’t ask and Dean wasn’t about to offer any information other than the fact that it was finished and that Sergeant Anderson was alive.

Dean kept his face turned away from Nate as they’d entered the cabin but he couldn’t avoid Nate’s shocked intake of breath when he saw Sergeant Anderson’s battered body sprawled in the dirt. Then there was Richard, as if the kid hadn’t been traumatised enough. Nate assured them that as soon as they were clear of the area he’d make the call and have a medevac ambulance directed to the scene. Nate agreed it best if he called it in and informed the relevant authorities he’d been the first on the scene. There was no cause to linger, and the longer they stayed the longer it would take to get the help Sergeant Anderson needed. 

Dean closed the cabin door and wondered if he’d only imagined the comforting feel of Nate’s hand against his shoulder as he’d turned to leave.

There weren’t many opportunities to learn if the touch had been real or imagined in the days that followed. 

Nate had been up to his neck in lies and deceit, enough that it could pass as believable but at the same time would lead the investigation anywhere but the truth. He had been true to his word and kept Dean and John out of it. Dean had caught snippets from the news bulletins and headlines that Sergeant Anderson was expected to make a full recovery. He’d probably need therapy for the rest of his life, but he was stable.

Dean and John had been hell bent of flushing out Lilith but after four days and no leads, they’d had to accept she’d put her own survival before the master plan and gone to ground. Dean had no doubt, they’d cross paths again at some point, and if Bobby was right, and they were big on wrath and revenge. She’d find some way to pay them back. More than likely she’d find herself a new demon to cosy up with. If there was one certainty, it was that there was never a shortage of evil jockeying for the crown, each with its own master plan. He just hoped whatever the next brand of evil had up its sleeve it didn’t involve kids. 

By the time Nate had tied up all the loose ends, John had disappeared on another of his mysterious hunts that he, for someone refused to discuss with Dean, and Dean was half way across the country chasing down a pair of Vetala. 

…

Dean glanced up from the laptop screen his eyes sore and vision blurred, and mentally calculated the miles between Athens, Ohio and Greenwood Oregon. The past year had been crazy, even by their standards. Something was on the move, something big that had demons crawling out from every nook and crevice. Dean had spent most of it hunting solo, his father hot on the trail of an elusive gun that supposedly could kill anything. The only drawback being, no one alive had actually seen it but John was sure it existed.

_Two thousand, five hundred and forty something miles…_

Dean yawned, stretched his arms above his head and groaned as the knotted muscle in his neck clenched and then finally, relaxed a little. He wasn’t used to sitting, hunched over books or a computer for hours. He’d much rather be out there, in the thick of it, ankle-deep in blood, guts and gore.

But today he’d made an exception. 

Dean smiled as his gaze settled on the photographs for the umpteenth that day. Each snapshot a victory amid the loss, bright, and joyous. A timely reminder that it was all worth it. The photos were taken from several angles and distances, including close up. The brightly wrapped gifts, hastily torn open, the piñata cracked wide and the glow from the eight burning candles reflected in the brilliant blue of his eyes.

_Thirty-eight hours and however many minutes if he shagged ass…_

Maybe once he’d done with the Voodoo thing in New Orleans?

He’d read Nate’s email so many times he could recall every word. The expressed content obvious, the hidden, explicit. Maybe he was reading more between the lines than actual lines. But there was a longing, a hunger, tampered down but there, woven between the gratitude and sentiment where it nestled, warm, eager and waiting.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 


End file.
